


The Heart Wants

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bath Sex, Bondage, Dream Sex, Drug Addiction, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 07:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 106,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Holmes/Watson. Watson is married to Mary, but sleeping with Holmes.





	1. The Heart Wants

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THIS FOREWORD RIGHT NOW!! Ok, this fanfiction is NOT MINE. It is the excellent work of FanFiction user Dollymop. I saw that the fic wasn't on AO3, and so I put it on here. All credit goes to Dollymop, not me. ENJOY!!

 

“Don’t wait for me, darling.”

 

Watson bent down to peck his wife of two months on her cheek. She turned her blue eyes onto him exasperatedly, lowering her book to her lap. “What does he want now?”

 

Watson glanced at her. “It’s nothing,” he said airily. “Don’t worry.”

 

“There’s really no sense in our being married if you spend every waking moment running back to him,” Mary said coolly, watching him don his coat and hat. 

 

He did not look up.

 

“John.  _ Please _ ,” Mary said with an edge of irritation to her voice. Watson looked up at her and smiled blandly.

 

“Really, Mary, it’s a trifling little case. It’s really nothing.”

 

“Then why does he need you?” she asked him bluntly. 

 

“I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Watson went for the door. “We’ll have dinner. Good night, don’t stay up too late.”

 

He left her. Mary sighed with a shake of her head and went back to her book.

 

**oOo**

 

“You’re late.” 

 

Holmes met Watson at the door of his rooms, his shirt sleeves rolled up, sweat stains around his collar and his hair looking as though it hadn’t been washed in days. 

 

“My God, Holmes,” Watson said, staring at his friend’s dishevelled appearance. “You look aw—

 

He was cut off by Holmes gripping him by the collar and wrenching him bodily through the doorway. He was thrown quite painfully against the nearest wall and the detective immediately descended upon him. Watson clutched at his friend’s shoulders, throwing his head back as Holmes found the sensitive skin of his neck, attacking Watson with a mess of lips, tongue, and teeth. 

 

He ran his tongue down Watson’s excited flesh. Watson pressed him closer, shuddering with pleasure as Sherlock nipped at the taut skin over his collar bone. 

 

The tightness between his legs began to throb, he pressed himself against Holmes. The sensation of Holmes’ growing sex against his own made them groan in unison. A heated pulse ran down his crotch, begging for release. 

 

He gripped Holmes’ chin and brought his friend’s mouth roughly onto his own, savouring the strange mixture of sweat, saliva, and wine as he forced his way into the damp warmth. He explored Holmes’ mouth with his tongue and Holmes clumsily reciprocated. He felt hands around his waist, then lower down his hips, Holmes’ fingers exploring his body in hesitant spurts. 

 

Watson slid his own hands under the detective’s shirt to caress the taut stomach muscles, admiring how Holmes’ skin reacted against his touch. He heard Holmes’ mew of pleasure, felt his back arch as he gently slid his fingers down to the pubic bone. 

 

“Why were you late?” Holmes asked quite suddenly, pulling back to stare at his friend’s dazed face.

 

“Mary was asking questions—

 

was all Watson was able to say before Holmes claimed his mouth again, this time letting his hands find the now fully formed hardness between Watson’s thighs. He rubbed hard, savouring the growl it extracted from Watson. Watson broke from Holmes’ lips, letting out an involuntary groan as Holmes gripped his erection through his trousers, stroking it forcefully. 

 

He looked intently at Holmes; his unshaven face was flushed with desire. He could feel the heat radiating from his body; every muscle, limb, and curve was pressed against him. Watson’s heart skipped a beat. He gripped the front of Holmes’ shirt, roughly bringing his mouth close to his but stopping short of kissing him. Instead he moved his hand to the buttons on Holmes’ trousers. He could feel Holmes straining against the material. He undid the buttons one by one, admiring the look of taut desperation on Holmes’ face as his hands brushed teasingly close to his throbbing erection.

 

He felt Holmes’ hands go hastily to the buttons on Watson’s own trousers, clumsily tugging at them, his fingers slipping unsteadily in his pleasure drunken state. He was trying desperately to keep up with his far more experienced friend; a friend who was more used to pleasure and therefore was not so drugged by it when he experienced it. Watson enjoyed having that one advantage over Holmes. 

He smirked and pulled at Holmes’ trousers, and they slid down his thighs, releasing his hardened member; the tip already glistening with his need. He pushed it into Watson’s inner thigh to stop himself from climaxing right there and then. Watson moaned at the contact. 

He hastened to remove his own trousers, the pressure between his legs becoming almost painful. Holmes didn’t let go of him as he shimmied out of his slacks and kicked them away.

 

Holmes pulled him back flat against him. Their bodies touched and it was as though an explosion of pleasure had run through Watson’s entire body. The sensation of Holmes’ arousal against his, his limbs entangled around his waist and back and shoulders, was intoxicating. For a moment, his mind went blank with ecstasy. 

 

And then, before he lost control of the situation, he quickly took Holmes by the waist and pushed him firmly into the wall, pressing his chest to Holmes’ back. He could feel the slimmer man’s chest heaving up and down against him; his skin was already damp with sweat. Watson gently parted Holmes’ thighs with his hand. Holmes whimpered.

 

“Wait,” Watson told him. Holmes nodded, resting his forehead against the wall. 

 

Watson went to the cupboard in the bathroom. It was in disarray. Bottles of unlabelled liquids were everywhere along with soap, medicines, oil, and random objects that looked as though they had been shoved there as a last resort. 

 

“Bloody Holmes, never bloody putting anything back in its proper place…” Watson muttered, picking up what looked like a pocket dictionary and tossing it over his shoulder. 

 

He finally found what he was looking for amongst the laudanum and alcohol rub and hurriedly returned to Holmes. Who was where he had left him: against the wall.

 

He smirked to himself and pressed himself against Holmes’ slender figure again. He felt a shudder go through Holmes’ body. 

 

He unscrewed the bottle and poured some of the liquid onto his fingers. He pushed his hand under Holmes’ shirt and trailed it slowly down his spine, savouring the reaction of Holmes’ skin. It retracted at his touch, sensitive and unused to the attention. Holmes kept taking sharp, abrupt breaths, jerking and arching under Watson’s skilled fingers. 

 

Watson trailed his fingertips down Holmes’ tailbone, to his entrance. Without waiting for Holmes to catch his breath, he slowly and with relish slid two fingers inside of his friend. Holmes jolted and cried out. Watson kept his free hand on Holmes’ waist, gently stroking him under his shirt while he carefully and gently prepared him with his nimble doctor’s fingers. 

 

“Ugh, hurry up, Watson,” Holmes groaned, hunching his back as Watson finally extracted his fingers. 

 

Watson was only too happy to oblige. He dropped the bottle and clutched Holmes’ hips, gritting his teeth against the mounting arousal. He pressed his lips against Holmes’ neck. 

 

“Now,” Holmes said tightly, his head bowed. “Please. Now. Please.”

 

Watson would have teased him longer, but his own need was becoming too much. Pressing his face into Holmes’ hair, he finally thrust himself inside of his friend and lover. Both of them cried out in unison. One in pain, the other in intense pleasure. 

 

Holmes pressed his palms hard into the wall. He whimpered, his body rocking in rhythm with Watson’s firm, forceful movements inside of him.

 

Watson forced his mouth and nose hard into the curls of hair at the nape of Holmes’ neck, filling his nostrils with his friend’s scent. “So…tight…” he managed to gasp.

 

Holmes moaned in response.

 

Watson moved one of his hands from Holmes’ hip and took hold of Holmes’ erection. Holmes let out a shuddery, wanton whine. 

 

“Harder, Watson,” he said through gritted teeth. “Please, harder.”

 

Watson obeyed. With one hand on Holmes’ hip and the other firmly around his friend’s length, he rocked himself roughly into his friend, now in abrupt, jerking spurts. 

 

Holmes was breathing hard, every breath hitching when Watson pushed himself inside of him and sharply releasing when he pulled back. The movements became harsher, rougher, as the two men neared their release. Holmes was moaning and whimpering into the wall, his head bowed between his arms, Watson grunting and groaning into Holmes’ hair. 

 

“Watson!” Holmes suddenly cried out, throwing up a hand to catch Watson’s hair.

 

Watson pressed his lips firmly into Holmes’ neck. “Shhh,” he said hoarsely, working his hand harder up and down Holmes in time with his thrusts. 

 

It was an overwhelming stimulation of the senses. His eyes were full of his friend’s form; his slim, beautiful, masculine form. He could feel not just the pleasure of being inside his lover, but every curve and crevice of Holmes’ figure. He could hear Holmes’ cries, the endless stream of desperate, pleasured cries. And he could smell Holmes’ scent, the strange tang of sweat and tobacco. It was almost too much.

 

Abruptly and almost without warning, the weight between his legs became unbearable. He forced himself once more into Holmes and came. Hard. He threw his head back with a strangled cry. Holmes came in almost perfect unison with him. He felt the dampness explode beneath his hand, warm and familiar. He distinctly heard Holmes cry out his name, his voice blurred by passion and rapturous pleasure. 

 

For a few moments following, neither said anything. Watson felt drained. He was still inside of Holmes. His face was still in Holmes’ hair. He closed his eyes, concentrating on regulating his breathing. Beneath him Holmes was panting. And he was shaking. Watson could feel him. 

 

When he finally pulled away, Holmes turned to him and slumped backwards against the wall. His legs were quivering slightly, and he was damp all over. 

 

Without waiting for an invitation to do so, Watson went forward and took Sherlock carefully in his arms. In his post-sex fatigue, Holmes didn’t complain, but held onto Watson and laid his head against his shoulder. Watson was always surprised by how light his friend was despite his well-built figure. 

 

Watson took him to his bed and carefully laid him down. His eyes roamed down Holmes’ damp, slim figure. He was beautiful to look at, especially when he was like this: fatigued by passion and smeared with his own seed. 

 

Watson forced himself to look away. He didn’t trust himself to stay when Holmes looked so utterly breathtaking. He turned to leave when he felt Holmes’ hand on his wrist. Watson glanced back at him.

 

“Stay,” Holmes said pleadingly, looking up at Watson with wide, slightly dazed eyes. “Please?”

 

“You know I can’t,” Watson said gently, prying Holmes’ fingers off of him. “If Mary woke up and I wasn’t there, what would she say?” 

 

Holmes looked as though he wanted to argue but to Watson’s surprise he just nodded and sunk down into his pillows. “Yes,” he said bluntly. “I suppose you are right. She is your wife after all…”

 

Watson heard the bitterness to his friend’s voice, but he chose to ignore it. 

 

“I’ll speak to you soon,” he said, bending down and kissing his friend on the mouth.

 

Holmes didn’t respond; he was staring straight ahead, misty-eyed. Watson watched him for a few moments. Holmes didn’t even look up or seem aware that he was still in the room. At length, Watson sighed and left to get dressed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Father, Progenitor, Parent

The following evening, Watson had dinner with Mary. She looked extremely pretty. Watson was sure that there was more than one man in the room visualizing the splendour of having such a woman in his bed, and Watson was painfully aware that he was not one of them.

 

He and Mary had been married for a pitiful three days when one night, inexplicably, he had found himself in Baker Street, astride Holmes, thrusting and moaning into the darkness. It had been an explosion of violent proportions. They had argued that evening and then, without warning or explanation, Holmes had forced his lips onto Watson’s. Watson had wanted to resist, but the feeling of Holmes’ soft, clumsy mouth on his had been intoxicating. It felt so right. Even though he knew it should have felt all wrong. 

 

The tension that had been building steadily between them since Watson’s engagement had burst in a maelstrom of furious passion and lust. They had spent that night making love. Or rather, Watson had spent the night pounding into Holmes while he whimpered and begged below him. Watson was now sure that Holmes had been a virgin, judging by the substantial amounts of blood on the sheets the morning following. It was a testimony to the unfaltering pride of his friend that Holmes had preferred to suffer in silence than admit he was unbroken. It had been at least three days of watching his friend waddle about in obvious discomfort before he’d finally allowed Watson to examine him to ensure no lasting damage had been done.

 

Since that night, he had returned again and again to Baker Street throughout the two months of his marriage to Mary. He never dared to stay the night. He had learnt to feed Mary different excuses each time he slipped away to Baker Street and thus far, she had remained unsuspicious. 

 

He knew that it was a terrible betrayal of Mary’s trust and that it would not be possible to keep it from her forever, but nonetheless he kept going back to Holmes and they kept sleeping together and Watson kept enjoying it—fiercely. It was far easier and far less disconcerting to simply gloss over the unpleasant details, such as its being very illegal and held in the highest contempt by all self-respecting, God-fearing Englishmen. 

 

“Sweetheart, you look awfully pale,” Mary commented, peering at her husband across the table. “Have you been sleeping? Have you been working too hard? Is he tiring you out?” 

 

Watson didn’t reply.  _ No,  _ he hadn’t been sleeping. He had been stricken down by the most terrible, persistent insomnia, and on the rare occasions he did manage to sleep, he dreamt of Holmes and awoke feeling even more weary and harassed than when he had fallen asleep.  _ Yes, _ he certainly  _ had _ been working too hard. He was a doctor. It seemed inevitable that he would. And with Holmes expecting him at his beck and call, it really left little time for respite. And finally,  _ yes,  _ Holmes had certainly been tiring Watson out. In far more ways than one. He tired Watson out more than any person he’d ever known. He was like a toddler that required constant attention and constant supervision. He feared that if he dropped his guard for one millisecond, the toddler would go tumbling down the stairs or drink a bottle of rat poison.

 

But he said none of this to his wife. Instead he smiled dismissively. “I’m fine, Mary. Don’t fuss.”

 

Mary watched him for a moment, looking as though she wanted to say something. She seemed to think better of it and went back to her food with a shrug. 

 

Watson cleared his throat; he had barely touched his own meal. “You know I do everything for you, Mary. My occasional absence is unavoidable.”

 

Mary glanced at him. “I know,” she said.

 

“Assisting Holmes will always be one of my priorities,” he went on meaningfully. “You knew my dedication to his work when we married.”

 

Mary looked unmoved. “I know,” she said flatly.

 

Watson felt unexplainably irritated by her silence. “Mary, if you have something to say, say it,” he snapped.

 

She looked up at him; she didn’t seem surprised by his sudden loss of patience. She laid down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “You’re a doctor, John, not a detective. I think you forget sometimes that you are not as agile as you once were. Holmes should know better than to risk your health with his absurd and frankly,  _ dangerous _ exploits.”

 

Watson relaxed. He had thought for a moment… Well, he didn’t know what he had thought. “Holmes’ cases keep my mind quick. Besides, he needs my help.” 

 

“But  _ why  _ does he?” Mary asked earnestly, laying a hand on her husband’s. “Why can’t you be content with your practise? Why can’t you be content…” She faltered slightly, lowering her eyes. “Creating a family.”

 

Watson froze. He felt his hand go rigid under Mary’s. He tried to think of something to say, but his mind had gone blank. He had been caught off guard. “O-of course,” he stammered at length, flinching away from her.

 

He stared at his food, taking his fork and impaling a carrot. He could hardly chew it, barely taste it. He felt Mary’s hand slip away.

 

“You do  _ want  _ to have children?” he heard her say.

 

Watson swallowed his carrot. He had been naive, he now realised, to not look beyond marriage itself. The worldwide chronology was marriage and then children. He had married and now he needed to produce the children. Naturally.

Except it didn’t seem particularly natural to Watson.

 

He looked at his wife and swallowed again. His mouth felt dry. “Of course,” he said calmly. He felt slightly sick. “Should we call for some more wine? Do you want another glass?”

 

“I’m fine,” Mary said patiently. “Darling—

 

“This mutton is a little dry,” Watson said heartily, prodding at the meat with his fork.

 

“Darling,” Mary said a little louder.

 

“You know, they really are bally Spartan with the gravy, aren’t they? There’s barely a puddle here.”

 

“Darling—

 

“But, I suppose it is economical—

 

“ _ Darling. _ ”

 

Watson closed his mouth. Mary sighed at him. “I know that founding a family is a daunting task, but surely you want an heir?”

 

Watson nodded numbly.

 

“And you would be such a good father,” Mary said warmly, stroking his hand.

 

Watson stared at her. “I already feel as though I’ve been one for years.”

 

Realising he was talking about Holmes, Mary tutted crossly and withdrew her hand. “Really, John. Must you always bring that man into our private conversations?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Watson said.

 

Mary half shrugged at him, keeping her eyes down on her plate. “It’s alright,” she said, though Watson knew it wasn’t alright.

 

There were a thousand things he wanted to say to her, but nothing seemed an adequate excuse. She was his wife and she wanted to have a family with him and Watson couldn’t think of anything but when he could see Holmes again. No, there was nothing alright about that at all.

 

**oOo**

 

He slept with Mary on Monday evening. While he was on top of her, her perfume stinging his nostrils, her soft, fragile female form beneath him, he thought of Holmes. It was the only thought which sustained him. If he imagined that her soft, round, feminine dells were Holmes’ hard, sharp, masculine lines, then he could almost bear it.

 

He thought of Holmes even when her cries made it hard to obscure reality. He thought of Holmes even when his body betrayed him by reacting to the encounter, and even when she climaxed and he half-heartedly followed. In the dark she couldn’t see that his eyes were closed and that he was visualizing his best friend where his wife lay. 

 

They didn’t sleep together often. Or as often as a newlywed couple of two months might. But now there was the threat that with every encounter Mary might fall pregnant, as if that possibility hadn’t been there before. Suddenly, the mention of the word “children” made it all so much more dangerous.

 

He shook his head in the darkness at his own stupid naivety as he lay beside his wife, now asleep and facing away from him as always. That was one blessing: she was not affectionate in bed. When it came to sleeping, she went to her side of the bed and he to his. The space was relieving. It made him feel less suffocated. And he could fantasize about Holmes until he finally fell asleep.  _ If   _ he fell asleep.

 

He lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes had adjusted to the dark. Never a good sign. He supposed all hope for sleep was very well dashed at this point. He could hear his wife breathing gently beside him. He exhaled slowly. 

 

She really wanted to have a child with him. Watson had never felt so doubtful about anything in his life. He felt that having a child meant that his life would not be his own anymore, it would be his son or daughter’s. And then Mary would spend all her time hiring the governess, the nurse, the nanny. She’d be organizing classes and fussing over whether to feed it oatmeal or breadcrumbs and water. There’d be a nursery. He’d have a new title. Father. Progenitor. Parent. He’d have a new role, a protector and a provider. There was so much weight in the titles that he could hardly lie where he was without squirming in discomfort. He couldn’t even care for Mary properly, so how could he be expected to care for a tiny, vulnerable life?

 

He closed his eyes, deciding he would recount the moments of his and Holmes’ last encounter, telling himself that it might help him drop off to sleep, but knowing that it was likely instead to just make him even more awake. Every thrust, moan, and touch had been so heated that even now in the cold, dark bed of his wife, he could feel the heat rising in his blood. Holmes drove him close to madness. He was ignorant, careless, obsessive, childish, and thoughtless, but no one caused Watson’s temperature to rise faster, or his…nether regions to respond more keenly than him.

 

He moved his hand carefully under the bed sheets to the area between his legs now throbbing dully in unsatisfied arousal. He stroked himself, imagining the taut, hard feel of Holmes’ body against his. His stomach clenched itself and his hips gently rocked in time with his movements. 

 

He had said he would go and see Holmes on Friday. It was now Tuesday morning, the two chimes of the grandfather clock in the hallway told him. Holmes would be cross and hurt, but Watson knew he had to start being more careful and discreet. Mary was becoming disgruntled at his dashing off to Baker Street every day. He had had to smooth the waters before he returned. 

 

Well, he thought, turning onto his side, he would go and see Holmes tomorrow. He wouldn’t tell him of Mary’s sudden desire to have children. He would let that settle. Who knew, perhaps God would be kind and delay his seed for a little while. Perhaps Mary would turn out to be barren. Perhaps he would turn out to be deficient. Perhaps.

  
  
  



	3. On Bended Knee

 

Watson took a hansom to Baker Street. It was pouring with rain. The run from the hansom step to the door of Baker Street soaked him to the bone.

 

He took off his coat and hat at the door and shook himself off, feeling unpleasantly damp and sticky. He was about to knock when suddenly the door flew open. Holmes stood in the doorway, half dressed, with his hair uncombed and his stubble even worse than when Watson had seen him last.

 

“Why didn’t you come?” he demanded immediately in greeting.

 

“For goodness’ sake, Holmes,” Watson snapped, pushing his way past the detective. “My God.” He stopped short.

 

The room looked as though a bomb had hit it. Clothes, books, candles, and other nameless objects had been thrown willy-nilly across tables, furniture, and the floor. The oil lamps were burning in the middle of the day because all of the curtains had been pulled. Everything smelled overwhelmingly of opium. And it was hot. Stiflingly hot.

 

He whirled around to Holmes. He was still standing in the doorway, staring at Watson with narrowed eyes.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Watson snapped. “What the devil do you think you’re doing? You can’t live like this. It isn’t… _ healthy.  _ It isn’t  _ normal. _ ” He strode over to Holmes, taking him roughly by the shoulders and giving him a slight shake. “You can’t go to pieces just because I’m not here to police your every movement. You’re not a child.”

 

Holmes wrenched himself from Watson’s grasp and stomped across the room, kicking a footstool across the floor as he went. It skittered over its legs and landed with a dull clunk against the wall. “You think I’ve fallen apart because you’ve left me? That I can’t function if you’re not in the room?” he stormed, rounding on Watson. “Well, I am sorry to debunk this theory you hold of my world orbiting solely around you, but I have  _ always  _ existed perfectly well without you. And this is how I wish to live. It just so happened that during the slight interval in which you invaded my existence, you were so incessantly choleric that I was forced to tailor my habits to please  _ you.  _ Now that I again live alone, I am very well allowed to live as I please.”

 

Watson went sharply forward, wanting to punch Holmes across his stupid, childish jaw, but restraining himself with difficulty. “If I was so bally  _ intrusive  _ why the hell didn’t you order me out of your household? You had every chance to,” he snarled, taking Holmes roughly by the wrists and forcing him to look him in the eye. “You had every opportunity to rid yourself of me. Why didn’t you?”

 

“You know very well why not,” Holmes snapped, trying fruitlessly to twist out of Watson’s grip.

 

“No, I don’t, Holmes. Enlighten me,” Watson all but shouted at him. “Why are you so difficult? Why are you so bloody destructive to yourself and anyone who comes more than four hundred feet of you?”

 

Holmes stared at him; his eyes were wide, his face flushed with anger.

 

For a moment neither of them spoke. They simply stared at each other, Holmes’ wrists still locked in Watson’s hands. 

 

Then, like lava bubbling over the side of a volcano, they fell upon each other.

 

Watson found himself against the windowsill as Holmes nearly threw himself at him, almost crawling right on top of him in his ardour. He kissed Watson not just on the mouth but on his cheeks, on his neck, on his jaw. “You just…think you can…come and…go…” he said between his fervent kisses. “as you please…”

 

Watson was partly bemused, partly highly aroused by this new turn of events. He held Holmes, his hands around his waist as his face and neck were happily assaulted by the detective’s damp, clumsy mouth.

 

“And you think I’ll just…wait…for… _ you _ …”

 

“Holmes, are we arguing or are we kissing,” Watson managed to say between being devoured.

 

Holmes suddenly took a hold of his earlobe with his mouth and Watson had to use all of his self-control not to let out a whine. “You need to learn to multi-task, Watson.” Holmes paused, running his nose up the rim of Watson’s ear. “Has your wife taught you nothing?”

 

Watson froze. Holmes immediately knew he had said the wrong thing. He sighed inwardly. Watson’s chivalry was always intruding at the most inopportune moments.

 

Watson wrenched himself from Holmes’ arms and stormed away across the room. Holmes rolled his eyes and leant against the windowsill. 

 

“Why do you have to bring  _ her  _ into this? Why do you have to make comments like that?” Watson demanded. “Why do you have to be so damned…” He searched for words. “ _ Childish? _ ” He would have liked to say something vastly more biting, but Holmes always seemed to be able to frustrate him into a fluster.

 

“Why didn’t you come on Friday?” Holmes asked, crossing his arms sulkily. “You said you would.”

 

“Really, Holmes,” Watson snapped, snatching his sodden coat from the floor and tossing it over a chair arm laden with frayed silk scarves. “I’m married now. You’ll have to learn to be more tolerant.”

“I needed you.” Holmes sniffed. “It’s important that you are here when I need you.” 

 

Watson bristled at that, his face flushed peach. “I’m not your personal molly boy,” he said crossly. “I can’t just be ordered about whenever you feel like it.” 

 

Holmes raised an eyebrow irritatingly. “And so I am expected to wait for you whenever you decide to come?” There was insinuation in the final word, both of them knew it, and it irritated Watson to no end.

 

“What do you want from me?” he snapped in exasperation.

 

Holmes sighed and looked away. In truth, he didn’t know what he wanted from Watson, much less could he verbalize it. He just felt neglected and angry and abandoned and he was being childish, he knew it, but couldn’t help it. And still he was certain that he was right.

 

At length Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “Look,” he said, going to sit in an armchair also drowned in discarded silk scarves. “Let’s not argue, old boy. You know I don’t want to waste our time arguing.”

 

Watson watched his friend dig about in the pile of cloth in search of his pipe and shook his head, exhaling heavily. “Yes. Alright,” he said tiredly, too used to Holmes’ sudden changes in disposition to attempt to decipher what had caused it. He went to the chair opposite and fell into it, groaning heavily as he did.

 

Holmes froze momentarily at the sound, but a split second later had plucked his pipe from the depths of God knew where and was searching for a match on his person.

 

“Have you been in a drug-induced stupor ever since I left?” Watson asked dryly.

 

Holmes didn’t reply; he had found a match and was busy trying to light it on the arm of the chair. 

 

“It smells like an opium den in here,” Watson remarked.

 

Holmes lit his pipe and took a drag, sitting back comfortably in his chair. “Well, now, Watson,” he said, completely ignoring the comments on his drug habits. “I had a young lady come to see me this morning. It seems that her—

 

“Holmes,” Watson said sternly. “Are we going to address the fact that you seem to have completely lost any sense of reality, completely lost the ability to care for yourself, and in addition seem to have completely lost your marbles?” He jerked his head at the silk scarves. “What the devil are they for? Have you been pick pocketing?”

 

“I haven’t  _ lost  _ anything,” Holmes said, puffing contentedly on his pipe. “Everything I do has an exact purpose, and just because you do not immediately see the purpose, doesn’t mean it is not present or important.” He paused, peering at Watson. “Do you want to help me with a case or not?”

 

“Well,” Watson responded tentatively, thinking of Mary. He would be doing exactly what she had told him  _ not  _ to do if he said yes. “You see…Mary seems to think—

 

Holmes let out an affected sigh and sunk down in the chair. “Yes, yes. Fine. Don’t bore me with your marital guff.” 

 

Watson narrowed his eyes at him. “I know you’re upset, so I’ll excuse this bout of brain fever.”

 

Holmes abruptly sat up, his pipe between his teeth. Watson felt an inevitable swoop in his stomach at the sudden sight of his friend, shirt open, hair dishevelled, and lips encasing the pipe spout. “Watson, you really must forgive me,” he said, eyelashes fluttering. “You know how  _ feverishly  _ I respect the holy matrimony of marriage.”

 

Another rapid change in disposition. Watson raised an eyebrow. “Since when?” 

 

“Since now.”

 

He slid from the chair onto his knees and, with the pipe still wedged in his mouth, crawled towards Watson, eyes level with the V of Watson’s spread legs. Watson felt a twinge; he forced himself to stay still. He would not let himself be subject to Holmes’ manipulation, he told himself. Though the already growing bulge between his thighs told him he’d already lost.

 

“And to show how immeasurably apologetic I am to have insulted your delicate moralities, I will display my regret on  _ bended knee. _ ” Holmes said solemnly. He took his pipe from his mouth; Watson watched his lips slowly release the damp spout, flustered at the effect it created in his lower regions. Holmes balanced the pipe on a pile of discarded books and turned back to Watson with a roguish glint in his eyes and one eyebrow raised.

 

“Now, Holmes…” Watson started, digging his nails into the arms of the chair to steel himself against the fingers which were now trailing up his inner thigh. 

 

Holmes had an infuriating half-smirk on his face; he could see through Watson’s thin, unconvincing veil of reluctance like glass. He slid his hand into Watson’s crotch and gripped. Watson bucked upwards with a tight grunt. As though on its own accord, his left hand found its way to Holmes’ hair. “Holmes…” he said half-heartedly, as Holmes began to rub him, slowly and with purpose.

 

He could feel himself becoming stiff; he was beginning to strain against his trousers. With another stroke, a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine and pooled around his pubis.

 

“My, my. You’re so reactive today, Watson.” Holmes smirked, running a finger down the seam of Watson’s crotch.

 

Watson didn’t speak; his whole body felt taut with desire. He pulled almost instinctively on Holmes’ head, willing him closer. Holmes didn’t seem inclined to hurry the process, however, and was content with teasing Watson.

 

He kept rubbing Watson in slow, deep strokes with one hand and moved his other to Watson’s belt, fumbling with it and never removing his eyes from Watson’s face. He undid the buttons and slid his hand up under Watson’s shirt. He gently dragged his fingers up Watson’s stomach to his chest, the sudden contact of his fingertips on the sensitive muscles making the doctor’s skin flinch and retract.

 

“You appear to be a pillar of discipline and yet a few soft touches and you become completely undone,” Holmes mused, adoring the way Watson nervously dampened his lips as his arousal grew.

 

Watson didn’t trust himself to reply.

 

“Whatever is the matter, Watson?” Holmes slid two fingers down the front of Watson’s trousers, inducing a violent jerk from the doctor. “Why so silent?”

 

“You’re pushing it, Holmes,” he growled.

 

Holmes peered innocently up at him, an expression at bizarre odds with what he was now doing with his right hand. 

 

He undid Watson’s buttons slowly. Watson’s grip on Holmes’ hair tightened slightly, but the detective didn’t seem to notice or care. He gripped Watson’s trousers and pulled on them. They didn’t budge.

 

He looked at Watson, Watson looked back at him blearily. “Do you mind?” Holmes said dryly. “I can’t do  _ everything  _ myself.”

 

If he had not been unable to remember his own name by this point, let alone attempt anything so physical, Watson would have slapped Holmes around the head for the remark, but as it were, he moved his hips upwards so that Holmes could shimmy his trousers and underclothes down his thighs. He let out a strangled groan as his straining sex was released. He was already leaking, he noted with embarrassment. How could Holmes induce such a passionate reaction from his body when no one else could?

 

Holmes had paused, evidently to admire his handiwork. Watson flushed. He knew Holmes liked being complimented; he liked his brilliance in all things to be flattered. Even if Watson had not expressed verbally just how susceptible he was to Holmes’ touches, then his magnificently swollen member certainly made it clear.

 

Holmes looked up at Watson again. The doctor was trying to control his facial features, which seemed to have been forcibly relaxed into an expression of dazed gratification. Holmes’ own features were perfectly neutral; there was no sign of a smirk playing on his lips now, but his eyes were dancing with amusement as he slid his fingers around Watson’s begging appendage and dragged a guttural choking sound from his friend. Watson’s fingers were now so tightly tangled in Holmes’ hair, he was sure he’d rip a chunk of it out when he attempted to retract them.

 

Holmes began his movements slowly, handling Watson’s length with steady, almost measured strokes. Watson put his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling and no longer even attempting to resist the throbs of pleasure that were running down his lower stomach to the tip of his cock. 

He knew that with every stroke, Holmes was demonstrating the extent of his power over Watson’s body.

 

Holmes seemed very much aware of that power. “Does she do this for you?” he asked in a low voice, his grip tightening around Watson.

 

“Shut.  _ Up. _ ” Watson growled, rolling his hips forward.

 

Holmes watched Watson closely. He could see the muscles in his face working fiercely against the steady build of pressure in his entire form. He felt a smug and spiteful conviction that no one—certainly not Mary—could draw such a reaction from his friend but him.

 

“Then again, this is all rather sordid and indelicate,” Holmes went on blandly, as though he was simply commenting on the weather, and did not have his hand wrapped around his friend’s private parts. “I don’t suppose she would be willing to partake in such activities. You keep these obscene pastimes just for me—

 

“That’s it,” Watson said abruptly. “Get off.” He made a vain attempt to push Holmes away.

 

Holmes, however, placed his hands firmly on each of Watson’s thighs and, without warning, took the doctor’s aroused flesh fully in his mouth. Watson cried out against his will and pushed his hips upwards, against Holmes and the damp ecstasy that had gripped him below the waist.

 

Holmes was not skilled at such activities; his movements were clumsy and sporadic, but that only seemed to excite Watson further. He also bravely retained Watson’s entire, not insignificant length, deep in his mouth for almost the entire time, and that in itself was enough to confound the poor doctor into a pleasure drunken stupor.

 

Although it is doubtful that Watson would have counted himself as “poor” as he threw his head back with a harsh moan and tightened his grip, if that were even possible, on Holmes’ hair. His body, almost on its own accord, began to move in sync with Holmes’ attentions. His hips rocked forward as his body began to strain into Holmes in search of release. 

 

He threw a restless hand up to grip the back of the chair. “You’re a bastard,” he gasped.

 

Holmes responded by suddenly releasing him. There was a wet popping sound as Watson’s aching, unfulfilled erection rushed from Holmes’ mouth. Watson almost howled at the loss.

 

“Stand,” Holmes said.

 

Watson didn’t move, his hand still knotted in Holmes’ hair. His heart was pounding in his chest. Holmes was staring at him; the twinkle had gone from his eyes.

 

“Stand, Watson,” he repeated, his hands resting on Watson’s thighs.

 

Watson was not a man who liked being ordered about, especially not by Holmes, but his whole lower half was throbbing and he was in no position to refuse Holmes’ demands if obeying them meant he would gain back the warm, ungainly moisture of the detective’s mouth.

 

He stumbled upwards and his knees buckled slightly beneath him at the sudden weight on his weakened legs. His trousers pooled around his ankles; he loosened his grip on Holmes’ head, feeling increasingly stupid.

 

Holmes kept his eyes on Watson’s face as he took him in hand. In both hands, in fact. He gripped the doctor’s erection and tentatively teased the leaking tip with his tongue, almost just out of curiosity, to see how Watson would react. He was not disappointed. The doctor’s whole body writhed and he gave a breathless, straining gulp. 

 

Holmes paused to smirk up at him and Watson felt a hot flush creep up his neck.

He was embarrassed by his own body’s intense reactivity. He was also certain that Holmes was purposely doing everything in his power to humble Watson completely while pleasuring him. And at present, Watson felt very much at his mercy.

 

“Spread your legs,” Holmes said softly.

 

Watson sent him a frosty look. Holmes admired Watson’s ability to appear so disapproving, even when his full throbbing erection was wrapped in Holmes’ hands.

 

Watson moved his thighs very slightly apart. Holmes’ smirk widened. “A little wider, Watson.”

 

Grudgingly, Watson edged his feet apart until there were a few inches of air between his thighs.

 

Holmes took immediate advantage of it and in one admirably fluid movement for someone so inexperienced, he slid his mouth onto Watson’s cock and moved his hands into the created space between Watson’s upper thighs.

 

Watson bucked his hips forward, making Holmes’ eyes widen for a moment as Watson was thrust down his throat a little deeper than he had expected.

 

But a second later, he was calm again. His mouth thus employed, he moved one hand to Watson’s balls, rolling them unsteadily between his fingers. In a wild throb of pleasure, Watson drove himself deeper down Holmes’ throat, his nails impaled in the detective’s skull.

 

Holmes almost choked. But he knew that a sign of weakness would be immediately noted by Watson and today he wanted to be in complete control, so he fiercely resisted the urge to gag.

 

As noted before, Holmes was not an expert in such matters as these. He did not have Watson’s experience to use to navigate which areas were most sensitive to touch, but he knew what he personally found pleasurable, and he had observed in past encounters the areas on Watson’s body which seemed most susceptible to Holmes’ attentions.

 

He could only use this information, therefore, when he gently moved his hand from Watson’s inner thigh to the hot, damp area of his perineum. Watson cried out in agonized excitement, desperately rocking his hips into Holmes and throwing his head back at the sudden attention to the sensitive skin so close to his aching entrance. 

 

Watson didn’t think he could bear it much longer; the build of pressure was becoming too much. He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of the intense, pulsing desire.

 

Meanwhile Holmes himself could no longer ignore his own build of arousal. He had been straining against his trousers for the last twenty minutes, and even his stoic self-control had limits.

 

Keeping one hand teasingly close to Watson’s opening, he sought his trouser buttons. He fumbled with them blindly; they slipped through his sweaty, trembling fingers. He couldn’t grip them and less could he undo them. When he finally grasped one, he couldn’t thread it through the hole, and it slipped from his fingers. In his frustration, he gripped them as tightly as his diminished strength would allow, and tore at them, ripping them clean away from their seams. He heard them rattle onto the floorboards and skitter in all directions. He didn’t care.

 

He slid his fingers into his trouser front and took himself in hand, groaning against Watson at the sudden contact. 

 

Watson was forcing himself into Holmes in rough, harsh bursts. He was trying desperately to fuck Holmes’ mouth in search of his long delayed climax. Holmes’ jaw was beginning to ache at the pressure of having Watson in his mouth, but in his gluttony of pleasure, the twinge of pain along his chin only served to heighten his exhilaration.

 

He moved his mouth now faster over Watson, rubbing himself fiercely in time. He decide it was time Watson had his release. He wanted the doctor to orgasm before he did. In fact, he was determined that it would be so.

 

Never removing his eyes from Watson’s for a moment, he gently but firmly pushed the two fingers, which had been resting between Watson’s entrance and his manhood, wholly inside of him.

 

The reaction was immediate. Watson would have screamed had he not thrown a hand to his mouth and bitten into his knuckle with such violence that he drew blood. His whole body gave a convulsive jolt and he gripped Holmes so tightly by the hair that Holmes was sure he’d permanently have Watson’s fingers imprinted in his skull hereafter. There was an expression on Watson’s face that, to any person looking on, would have signified agony, when in reality, he was experiencing a pleasure so great he thought he would die of it.

 

He bucked his hips forward, serving to impale himself deeper onto Holmes’ fingers, and then he came so forcefully into Holmes’ mouth that Holmes would have choked on it had he not been expecting such a display.

 

At the sight of his friend in his ecstasy, his face contorted into a look of utter abandonment, Holmes came also and felt the dampness issue forth in no small amount into his hand and onto his clothes. 

 

Watson was heaving against him, his manhood still buried in his mouth.

 

Holmes swallowed Watson’s load with some difficulty. And then collapsed onto his back, finally releasing his scalp from Watson’s fingernails and breathing like he had just ran ten miles. He removed his hands from his own, now softening appendage and lay them on his front, conscious of the damp, sticky mess webbed between his fingers.

 

He heard a heavy thump and glanced up to see that Watson had collapsed down by the armchair, looking as though he had just come off the worst with a grizzly bear. His cheeks were cherry red, his usually painfully neat hair was plastered to his forehead, and his shirt was so damp with his own sweat that it was now see through.

 

Holmes rolled onto his knees and crawled over to his pipe. He stuck it in his mouth and slumped down by the coffee table, not bothering to do his trouser front up. 

 

He sucked on it thoughtfully, watching Watson’s limp, boneless form across from him and admiring the look of total bewilderment on his friend’s face. “Well…” he said serenely. “As I was saying…a young lady came to see me and seems to think that her brother-in-law has been lacing her elderly mother’s food with arsenic.” He paused. Watson didn’t respond. He was staring straight ahead, his mouth slightly open. “She’s been having stomach pains. So it could be nothing more than food poisoning, but if you ingest enough of that toxin, death comes rather quickly.” He examined his nails off-handedly. “And often in a somewhat unpleasant eruption of pain and confusion—

 

“Holmes,” Watson rasped, clawing his way back into the armchair. “Do me a favour, will you, and shut up.”

 

**oOo**

 

Watson dressed hastily back into his hat and coat. Holmes sat in his armchair, regarding his lover thoughtfully and puffing methodically on his pipe. 

 

Watson was in a rather huffy mood. Despite his evident enjoyment of the afternoon’s exploits, he inevitably felt embarrassed of his rapid loss of control of the situation. One moment he had been chiding Holmes for being a complete lunatic, and the next he had been orgasming into Holmes’ mouth. 

 

He shot the peaceful detective a sharp look as he fumbled with his buttons. “I don’t know where you learnt those whore’s tricks but you can rest assured that it was hardly on any account of any skill of yours that—

 

“You climaxed with enough ardour to put out a house fire,” Holmes supplied helpfully.

 

Watson narrowed his eyes at him. “You happened to catch me on a bad day,” he said curtly. “I’m tired. It wouldn’t have taken much.” 

 

Holmes looked infuriatingly unmoved by that claim. He shrugged his shoulders. “Very well.”

 

Watson jammed his hat onto his head. “Well, I’m going home to my  _ wife _ , Holmes. So you can comfort yourself as well as you can with your small victory alone.”

 

The tiny smirk which had been playing on Holmes’ lips vanished. He looked away. 

 

Watson went for the door. He had only said it to annoy Holmes, but when he glanced back, Holmes was still staring pointedly in the opposite direction, gnawing on his pipe spout in a frenzied fashion. Watson felt a pang. He’d hurt him.

 

But it was late and Mary would be waiting, so he left Holmes, silently promising that he’d atone for the remark at their next meeting.

  
  
  



	4. What You Don't Do

"Would you rather a boy or a girl?"

Watson looked at his wife over the top of his newspaper. He had not been expecting the question and less did he know how to answer it.

It was likely that either way he answered she would then demand as to _why_ he preferred that gender and what _names_ he liked best and what _furniture_ was best to adorn said gender's nursery. As too feminine furnishings in a boy's nursery could result in- shock, horror- effemination and even sodomitical tendencies in later life and girls given an excess of indulgence and a shortage of boundaries could grow into defiant, unyielding women. Or so some hysterical advice books found on his wife's bedside chair had claimed.

In truth, he felt he couldn't physically bring himself to care for one gender more than the other in any small way, because it still felt so unreal that he and Mary were even considering creating offspring together. It seemed too soon. Though in reality he knew it wasn't. They had been married two months; it was natural that she would want to start procreating. But how wretchedly uncertain he felt about it all.

He decided to lie. He was a competent liar, not competent enough to fool Sherlock Holmes but competent enough to fool Mary Morstan certainly. "A girl." He said calmly, not taking his eyes off his wife's.

"A girl?" She sounded surprised. "I thought you would surely want a boy? To teach? To carry on your profession?"

"A boy requires constant attention and supervision." Watson said, thinking of Holmes. "But a girl is far more self-sufficient and able to... _deduce_ what is sensible and what is not."

Mary was silent for a moment, regarding him with sharp, blue eyes. In the time they had been together she had learnt to read Watson, almost with as much skill as Holmes. "You have been quiet lately, John." She said, in a voice which did not prompt Watson to defend himself. "And you've been staying out later and later."

Watson folded his newspaper and put it down upon the table. "I know, it is regrettable but unavoidable." He said in his most nonchalant voice, avoiding his wife's gaze.

Mary said nothing. If Watson had been Holmes, he may have deduced several things about his wife's appearance. He may have noticed the way her nose twitched slightly like someone trying to stem a sudden prick of unpleasant emotion, he may have noticed that her eyebrows knitted for a moment in what could only have been described as pain, he may have noticed her lips thin in what would have been anger had it not been for the tremble that accompanied the movement. But Watson didn't see the signs in his wife, his mind had already returned to Holmes and what the detective would be doing with himself, now that his plaything had departed. Departed with a biting remark that Watson now wholly regretted.

He felt struck with guilt that he had taken his irritability out on Holmes who, despite his faults, was not to blame for feeling lonely and abandoned in the wake of Watson's departure. Watson himself knew that he would have suffered no small amount of consternation had he been the one who had had to watch while his lover and closest friend fell in love with another person. And subsequently had to watch him taken away by that person to a life that may not have been what he originally imagined...

He sighed, taking a sip of his very bitter coffee. Well, he decided, he would go and see Holmes today and atone for his hurtful comment in some manner.

He stood up and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. "I should go."

Mary looked up at him and was silent. John stretched across the breakfast things and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll see you this evening."

"You do remember that my parents are joining us for dinner tonight." Mary said dryly, holding her tea to her lips with a cold expression.

Watson froze. Of course he had _not_ remembered, and Mary seemed to have purposely not reminded him until the last moment to cause him as much panic and inconvenience as possible.

"Since when?" He asked, the words sounding uncomfortably familiar.

"Since we organized it a week ago." She said, regarding him coolly.

Watson went to fetch his hat from the stand, rolling his eyes unseen by his wife. "Very well."

"So you will be home by five o'clock." She said. It was not a question or a suggestion.

"Yes." Watson said, turning to her. It was only then that he realised she was angry. "Are you cross with me?"

Mary sighed. "No."

"Except that you are." Watson said, walking over to her and putting a hand under her chin, forcing her to look at him. "What's the matter?"

She stared at him and then pulled herself firmly out of his grip. "It's nothing. Go. You don't want to be late."

Watson didn't move. "You're angry. What have I done?"

Mary was silent. She stared at her half-empty tea cup. Watson cursed himself for being so wrapped up in his own sordid affairs that he had completely overlooked the fact that his wife was clearly fuming at him. At length, she sighed again. "It's not what you do. It's what you don't do."

"What do I not do?" Watson asked blankly, trying to wrack his brains as to whether it was her 'time of the month' and she was simply irate.

"It's almost eight o'clock. If you dawdle much longer, you will be late for your patients." She snapped, standing up and beginning to clear away the breakfast things with more violence than was necessary.

Watson watched her for a few moments and then finally shrugged and pushed his hat onto his head. "I'll see you at five then."

He left her and didn't see her sink miserably into a chair as soon as the door was closed behind him.


	5. Forgive Me My Fun

He knocked on the door of Baker Street an hour later, after wandering about The Strand for a while, smoking.

Curiously, there was no answer. He paused for a moment and knocked again. Sherlock very often did not answer the door to anyone unless he was in precisely the right sort of mood, though he usually always recognised Watson's firm, almost measured three knocks and answered within moments.

"Holmes!" He called out. "Holmes! Open the door!"

He pressed his ear to the door. He couldn't hear anything from within.

He frowned to himself. It seemed vastly unlikely Holmes would be out, unless he had decided to look deeper into the case he had mentioned.

Of course, there was also the likelihood that he was inside sulking and was refusing to open the door to Watson. In fact, that seemed more likely than anything else.

Watson flattened his ear to the door in search of a footstep, a cough, a mutter. "Holmes! I know you're in there!"

There was silence still.

"Look, for God's sake, Holmes, open the door! I need to speak to-

That's when he heard it: a groan. A groan so quiet and so weak that for a moment Watson thought he had imagined it until seconds later there was a second. Low and guttural and definitely male. He was beyond certain that they belonged to Holmes.

"Holmes!" He cried out. "Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

There was no response. Watson felt a twinge of panic in his stomach. He was now convinced that Holmes was in some way injured or immobilized. He was going to have to break down the door.

He looked around wildly for something he could use as a makeshift battering ram but, finding nothing, he backed up from the door, intending to attempt to ram it down with his less damaged shoulder.

He had a momentary vision of himself hitting the door at great speed and ricocheting off it with more damage done to him than it. It would be just like Holmes to have Watson kill himself in the pursuit of rescuing him.

And speaking of which, Watson suddenly thought, it would be very like Holmes to use Watson's inevitable guilt against him to have the doctor make a spectacle of himself. He had a second vision of Holmes presenting himself at the door, very able bodied and very smug at the sight of Watson with his shoulder popped out of its socket on his account.

No, he decided, he would not fall victim to Holmes's little game. He would wait. He knew Holmes well enough to know that he would not be able to stand the thought that Watson wouldn't come dashing to his aid at the first glimpse of trouble.

He went and sat down by the door, fumbling in his pocket for a fag.

From within the room he heard another groan, this one sounded a little louder than the first. If he had not been so certain that he knew Holmes's character thoroughly by this point, he would have been convinced they belonged to a man near death.

Rolling his eyes, he took out a somewhat squashed cigarette and felt for his matches in his coat pocket.

There was a sudden thumping sound from inside the room and he froze for a second, pricking his ears. But a moment later there was silence again.

He peered at the slightly lumpy cigarette and somewhat damp match. He had rolled the cigarettes that morning. Poorly, because Mary did not approve and he had had to do it within the ten minutes that she was engaged at her morning toilette ritual.

He lit it and took a long drag, sighing as he exhaled. Holmes would be the death of him. For the life of him he couldn't understand why he kept coming back to him. Holmes may have had the idea that he was always running after Watson, trailing behind him like a puppy but Watson thought it was quite the opposite. He was risking his marriage, his good name, his life for Holmes. He was the one who was being the fool, not Holmes. Not that he would ever tell the detective so.

Just then, he heard a creak and looked up. The door had opened an inch. He saw Holmes's face appear momentarily at the crack and then, almost as quickly as it appeared, he attempted to draw back into the room. But Watson was quicker than him. He got to his feet with lightning speed and stuck his umbrella in the door.

"Damn." Holmes swore.

"Good morning, Holmes." Watson said through gritted teeth, wrenching open the door.

"Hardly." Holmes retorted, turning and flouncing away into his den.

Watson rolled his eyes again, following the detective into the dark, humid room and leaving the door open an inch to let in some much needed fresh air.

"For God's sake, Holmes." He said, choking slightly on the tightness of the air. He loosened his tie and took off his coat, putting out his cigarette on an already badly burnt table by the door. "This room is like an oven."

"If it offends you, leave." Holmes said tartly, now sitting in his armchair. Or slouched rather, his walking cane in his hands and his hat on.

"You are such a child." Watson snapped. "What was that little charade in aid of? Did you want me to kill myself trying to bash the door down, thinking you were in here bleeding to death?"

Holmes sniffed and said nothing.

"Did you do it just to see me suffer? Or for fun? Or for... _what_?"

Holmes still didn't answer.

Watson let out a frustrated sound and pushed his hands through his hair. "I thought you were dying."

Holmes sighed at him and slouched lower into his chair.

Watson exhaled slowly. In reality he knew exactly why Holmes had done it. He not just wanted to punish Watson, he also wanted to reassure himself that Watson would come to him if he was in need. He needed the knowledge that Watson still cared enough about him to risk his own wellbeing in pursuit of preserving Holmes's. It didn't make it any less disturbed or irritating but it softened Watson somewhat. Holmes, for all his hard, offhand defences, was easily hurt and Watson knew that, though the detective would rather die than admit it, he was very much wounded to think that Watson didn't care.

Watson did care. Sometimes, he thought, too much.

Watson went to the chair opposite Holmes's and sat down. He examined the detective. He wasn't sure whether he had changed his clothes since he was last there. He was in bad need of a shave, a bath and a square meal.

"Look, Holmes." Watson began carefully, ignoring the fact that Holmes was staring at his crotch and not his face. "I am sorry... about what I said the other day. It was callous of me."

Holmes grunted, eyes not shifting from his crotch.

"Will you forgive me?" He said meaningfully.

Holmes looked up. He studied Watson's face but said nothing.

Watson bent forward, looking seriously at him. "You know that I would never purposely hurt you."

He saw Holmes's features soften. It was only for a moment, but he saw the cool indifference melt away before his eyes. Of course it returned as quickly as it went. "Very well, Watson." He said carelessly. "I will forgive you your folly." He paused, a glint going through his eyes. "And it seems only fair that you will forgive me my fun."

" _Fun_!" Watson burst out. Holmes raised an eyebrow in a challenging fashion. Watson sighed. "Yes, yes, very well. You are forgiven." He stood up and went to Holmes, bending down and pressing his lips to Holmes's. He felt the detective relax into him.

Watson broke the kiss abruptly and moved his lips to the detective's vulnerable ear; he pushed a hand to Holmes's throat, firmly but not roughly. "But if you ever pull such a hoax again, I will have to... _discipline_ you." He stressed the word 'discipline' with a slight growl that nobody, certainly not Holmes, could misread.

He felt Holmes shiver against him; an excited breath escaped his lips. "Yes, Watson," He said humbly.

"Tell me what you'd do to me." Holmes breathed, pulling Watson onto his lap.

Watson ground his crotch against Holmes's and relished the needy groan it extracted from him.

"I'd have to tie you up." Watson said solemnly into the detective's ear. He spread his knees either side of Holmes's thighs, gripping him possessively. "I'd have to cover every inch of you in something rather sticky and-

Holmes whimpered beneath him.

Watson pressed his lips against his ear. "Lick every inch of it off-

"Oh, please, please." Holmes said weakly, clutching at Watson, his eyes desperate. "Tell me."

Watson smirked. "I can't have you getting too excited, I have to go-

He moved to get to his feet but Holmes suddenly gripped him by the waist and crushed his mouth against him. Watson's eyes widened for a moment but he did not pull away, in spite of himself and in spite of the fact he was supposed to be anywhere but here.

Just as Watson was beginning to enjoy it, Holmes abruptly broke the kiss and pressed his mouth to Watson's neck. Watson jerked, gripping Sherlock's shirt. A shiver went down his entire form as Holmes began to suckle on his flesh.

"Holmes..." He protested weakly, though cocking his head to one side at the same time. "I'm supposed to be... working..."

Holmes didn't reply. He began working lower, pulling back Watson's shirt collar and running his tongue along the collar bone.

Watson gritted his teeth, managing to keep from moaning- just. "Holmes. Please."

"Stay," Holmes mumbled into his skin. His voice was low and so husky.

Watson felt a throb of heat go down his crotch. He controlled himself with difficulty.

Holmes pressed his lips to Watson's ear, his breathing shuddery. "Let me take you."

Holmes felt the doctor's whole form become rigid against him. "Wh-what?" He stammered, seeming thrown off guard by this request.

He leant back, staring at Holmes with a slight frown of confusion. "But..."

"But what?" Sherlock prompted.

"But I..." Watson trailed off, not knowing how to word his objection.

"But _what_?" Holmes pressed him, sliding his hands around Watson's waist, imprisoning him on his hips.

Watson grimaced. "I have to go to work." He said lamely.

Holmes looked at him closely and then a suspicious look came across his face. "Are you... _frightened_?"

Watson looked affronted at the suggestion. "Certainly not." He sniffed.

Holmes smirked widely. "Then prove it." He said softly, sliding a hand between Watson's thighs. "Let me fuck you."

"No!" Watson spluttered, attempting to shuffle backwards and finding himself well wedged into the chair on top of Sherlock. "I'm married!"

"What difference does it make?" Holmes snapped.

"It makes all the difference in the world!" Watson burst out, very flushed in the face. "What would my wife say if she knew I had been sodomised?"

There was silence. Holmes stared at him, his face blank. "And yet you were perfectly willing to 'sodomise' me." He said quietly.

Before Watson could reply, Holmes had pushed him quite roughly off his lap.

Watson landed painfully on his arse. Holmes stood up and walked away to his bedroom. He disappeared inside and slammed the door behind him. Watson stared after him, feeling abashed.

At length and with a heavy sigh, he got to his feet and walked over to the door. "Holmes." He said loudly.

There was no reply.

"Look, I'm sorry." Watson said, leaning a hand against the door frame. "You know I didn't mean it that way."

There was still no response. Why was it that Watson seemed to spend most of his life hollering through doors while Sherlock sulked?

"Come on, Holmes." He said, rolling his eyes. "You're acting like a child-

The door flew open. "You know what your problem is, Watson?" Holmes snapped, jabbing a finger in Watson's chest. "You believe yourself so very sophisticated and above me. And yet _I'm_ not the one committing adultery. _I'm_ not the one leading a double life, lying to his wife night after night while he hides the fact he's a sodomite from all the world-

Watson punched him.

Or hit him. Either way, it silenced Holmes rather swiftly. He gripped his cheek, staring at Watson with wide, wounded eyes. Watson immediately felt terrible. He hadn't meant to lose his temper. Holmes had touched a raw nerve.

"Holmes-

"Get out." Holmes snarled and he slammed the door in Watson's face.


	6. Learn What It's Like

Among the first things Watson became aware of when he opened his eyes was the fact that he was blindfolded. After a few seconds of blinking vainly into the darkness, he realised that he was not in fact blind but rather that someone had tied some sort of material over his eyes quite tightly and firmly.

Another thing he noticed soon after was that his arms had been bound above his head on some sort of hook from the ceiling. It wasn't entirely uncomfortable because he could rest his wrists on the straps and bend his elbows somewhat so that the pressure on his shoulders wasn't unbearable.

He noted these circumstances, not calmly, but with some degree of poise as these were not the most unnerving details in his current situation. The fact that he was completely nude was by far the most disconcerting thing and it being not an entirely warm night; he could feel certain parts on his body beginning to prick against the cold.

He struggled half-heartedly against the bonds. He could already feel that they were strong and that no amount of awkward tugging would release him. He stood perfectly still, trying in vain to remember how on earth he got to be in such a position. He couldn't seem to remember what he had been doing. It was all a strange, vague blur. He felt oddly hazy as he stood there and wondered vaguely whether he had been drugged. His head felt coated in a sleepy lull that he couldn't entirely shake, even standing there in his current vulnerable position in the cold of an unknown place.

"Here now. Your breathing has changed pace. You're awake."

The sudden voice made Watson's whole form jerk in surprise. His confused senses couldn't place where it was coming from until he felt hot breath on his ear and a hand on his thigh.

His eyes widened behind the blindfold as he felt a figure, fully clothed but nonetheless still unnerving, press against him from behind. If he hadn't already known from the voice that they were male, a certain throb of pressure against the base of his spine would have confirmed it.

"Get away from me." He snarled, struggling fruitlessly against the bonds and achieving nothing but further friction between himself and his assailant.

He felt lips press against the back of his head, their breath caressing his skin, their hands touching and stroking him while he stood helplessly, trying to ignore their touches. And all the while he could feel the bulge of hardness against his back.

He arched his back against the firm figure behind him, trying to quash the strange pulsing sensation in his lower parts that the touch was inducing. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the teasing fingertips trailing along his hips and waist. He knew that he should not be enjoying this treatment, and the fact that he was alarmed him more than anything else.

"Stop it." He blustered, as the hand strayed too near to the heat between his legs than was at all comfortable. "Unhand me this _instant_."

"Watson." The voice rumbled, making Watson's whole form prickle with excitement. "It is rather quaint that you are under the impression that you can _order_ your way out of any situation." There was a chuckle that tickled his ear. "Even when you're all tied up."

Watson immediately stopped squirming against the bonds. He narrowed his eyes behind the blindfold. He would recognise that smug, superior tone anywhere...

"Holmes..." He growled, cursing his hazy, befuddled brain for not realising it sooner.

The apprehension drained away to be replaced by embarrassment. Holmes had seen him react with such panic to his predicament. And, unless Watson had been very lucky, he was sure that Holmes would have noticed the reaction his attentions were having on Watson's restrained and helpless body.

"It seems this blindfold is no longer necessary."

Watson knew even without seeing that Holmes was smirking.

He felt the blindfold loosen over his eyes and then it was pulled away. For a moment the comparative lightness of the room blinded him and he felt even more bewildered as he tried to blink the sunlight out of his eyes.

He stared blearily at Holmes. Holmes dropped the blindfold to the ground, his mouth crooked into a smile that was not comforting. Especially to the bound and nude doctor.

Watson stared at him, conscious that he was breathing hard and trying to tame the haggard rise and fall of his constrained chest. He felt very vulnerable, his hips and chest were thrust forward, to keep his balance he had to part his legs slightly and that, obviously, but other parts of his body squarely on display.

Holmes was raking his body with a slightly hungry look in his eyes. Watson could see, even without craning his neck from its awkward position that Holmes was straining against his trousers.

His shirt was also undone, his chest seemed slightly damp with perspiration and his beltless trousers hung low, displaying a tantalizing trail of dark hair disappearing under the band.

Watson's loins gave a throb. He tried to calm himself. But every time he moved, even slightly, the straps became taut and his body grew hot at the sensation of being utterly helpless, tied up and trapped at Holmes's mercy. His body would not be fooled by his insistent attempts to quash the sensation.

And if he couldn't even fool himself, he hadn't a hope in hell of fooling Holmes. Holmes could tell a dog's breed by its bark, he didn't require the desperate, needy look in Watson's eyes, his panting breaths or the growing hardness between his legs to determine that Watson was desperately aroused by the situation.

"I always thought that behind the strongest, most reserved man was the..." Holmes paused with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "... 'bridled' desire to be restrained, dominated... _disciplined_."

Watson said nothing. Not only did he not trust himself but his mouth had become very dry.

Holmes moved an inch closer to Watson, Watson retained what dignity he had, staring Holmes straight in the eye as the detective smirked and cocked an eyebrow. "You like being all tied up..." He said softly, his breath warm on Watson's cheek, his scent of tobacco and spice filling his nostrils. He leant forward so that his body was just touching Watson's bare form. He touched his lips to Watson's ear. "Don't you, Watson?"

"Holmes." Watson rasped, trying in vain to move away from the detective's provocative presence against him. "This is positively degenerate. You must stop this immediately."

Holmes just smiled wider. "I haven't even begun."

He stepped abruptly away and Watson knew he was fighting a losing battle when his body immediately yearned for his return.

Holmes disappeared. Watson didn't know where to. He didn't even completely know where he was. It looked almost like a room in Baker Street but it wasn't. It couldn't be. The curtains, floor, furniture, walls were all different, altered. His confused mind couldn't place where on earth he could be.

Before he'd had time to recover Holmes's first assault, the detective returned. His shirt was now completely removed and he was holding a very familiar object. The doctor's cane.

Watson stared at it. Was Holmes planning to beat him with it? There was a small, flickering, masochistic part of Watson which almost hoped it was so.

Holmes stared squarely in front of him, both hands resting on the cane's top. Watson watched him, now sporting a rather obvious erection.

Holmes cocked his head to one side, as though considering the doctor in his present position.

"You really should have taken me up on my kind offer, Watson." He said, no smile apparent on his features now.

"What... do you... mean?" Watson panted, moving restlessly in his constraints.

Holmes took the cane in one hand, examining it in an offhand fashion. "And now, it may have to come in a fashion which, though no less pleasurable in the long run, might be somewhat more... _arduous_ in the short." He took the cane with both hands and smirked widely.

Watson felt his insides go cold. No... Holmes couldn't... he couldn't... _really_ be suggesting... "Holmes." He said hollowly. "What are you talking about?"

Holmes didn't speak. He returned to his position, a few inches from Watson, staring intently at the doctor with a hard expression.

He held up two fingers in front of the doctor's bewildered eyes and then, slowly, torturously, he moved them down Watson's taut length. His constrained stomach muscles, the sensitive area over his pubis to his already fully swollen sex.

Watson threw his head back with a strangled gasp. But Holmes didn't stop there. Without warning and without waiting for Watson to catch his breath, he pushed his two fingers roughly inside Watson's unprepared entrance. The doctor cried out in a combination of pain and intense arousal as the detective pressed up hard inside of him. Watson could do nothing but thrash against his bonds, his legs buckling and straining beneath him.

"Ugh. Fuck!" He whimpered, bucking his hips forward, his face contorted into a look of agony. "Holmes!"

Holmes pressed himself hard against Watson, not extracting his fingers. "You best get used to this treatment, my _dear_ friend. This is not the worst to come."

Watson threw his head from side to side. The sensation was almost too much. He thought he was going to orgasm that very moment but before he could come close enough, Holmes pulled out.

Watson whimpered again, his privates giving a sore twinge at the treatment. "Holmes..." He managed to articulate.

Holmes's smirk had become positively sadistic at the look on the doctor's face as he had been sodomising him with his fingers. "You do like it." Holmes said quietly. "I knew it."

Watson looked wretchedly at Holmes, feeling numb with humiliation at the treatment. "Holmes..." Was all he could bring himself to say.

"What would Mary say if she knew her husband was being... what was the word you used?" Holmes paused with narrowed eyes at Watson. " _Sodomised?"_

He still had the cane clutched in his right hand. He brought it up to his eyes with both hands, examining it closely, as though looking for something amongst the unremarkable polished wood.

"Holmes..." Watson said numbly. "Please. Don't."

Holmes looked up at him, his eyes cold. "Don't worry, dear Watson. You'll enjoy it."

Watson strongly doubted that and he struggled violently against the bonds as Holmes took the cane firmly in one hand put it behind Watson, against his back. "If only you had lost your pride for a night, you could have been mine." Holmes said with a strangely mournful edge to his voice. "I would have been gentle. I would have loved you, you know. More than any other."

Watson felt frozen with dread and confusion. This wasn't the Holmes he knew. This was an unstable, violent, sadistic imposter.

Holmes crushed himself against Watson, his erection painfully pressed against the flesh of Watson's inner thigh. Watson felt the cane's cold head touch the base of his spine. Holmes pressed it there, quite firmly but not painfully.

"This is insane!" Watson burst out. "This is perverse! How can you do this to me!" He felt on the verge of tears and still the pressure between his legs did not lessen. The overwhelming sensation of Holmes against his every curve and crevice was enough to drive him wild with passion even in the clutches of horror of what the detective was about to do.

Holmes said nothing. The cane head slid neatly down Watson's spine, his arse to the space between his upper thighs and his perineum. He rested it there.

Watson's opening ached. He felt sore.

Holmes pressed the cane into the sensitive area, not hard but with some pressure and it was enough to send convulsions up Watson's body. He writhed wildly in his bonds, crying out a mixture of curses and Holmes's name, begging him to stop.

He eventually withdrew it an inch so the sensation was not as overwhelming. Watson was shivering. He stared at Holmes in a mixture of disbelief and hurt. "Why are you doing this?"

Holmes didn't reply immediately. He was surveying Watson calmly. He looked over his friend's distressed countenance with the air of someone examining a horse they were considering the purchase of. He lowered his eyes with the smallest of smiles. "You need to learn what it's like."

With that, he took the cane tightly in his fist and brought his lips roughly onto Watson's at the same time he drove the cane upwards between Watson's legs.

Watson wanted to scream but no sound came from his mouth.

His whole body gave a violent spasm and he jerked forward. His head erupted with pain as it came into contact with something solid and very hard.

His eyes flew open. He blinked wildly, still in a whirl of confusion and panic.

He froze, staring wide-eyed at where Holmes had stood not moments before. The world was on its side, and Holmes was certainly nowhere to be seen.

He closed his eyes again, breathing slowly, allowing his senses to recover.

Then he opened his eyes again and realised where he was. He was in his study. At home. His head was on his desk, one hand lying beside him and the other hand below the table wrapped around himself still. He had apparently been wanking rather vigorously because his privates felt sore from the friction and pressure.

His hands were damp from the result. He slowly sat up. Feeling dazed and lightheaded.

It had seemed far too real- and terrible to be a dream.

He sat for a moment in silence, staring straight ahead and recalling the disturbed and unpleasant but sickeningly arousing remnants of the dream. Being sodomised with his own cane? Now there was irony. Holmes was certainly one for irony.

But, he shook his head with a bemused frown, Holmes was no sadist. Or madman. For what the conjured image of Holmes had done was positively brutal and Holmes certainly would never sink to such lows. Blackwood had been far more likely to hold a candle for such...practises.

Watson shook his head at his own foolishness and unwrapped his hand from his softening sex. He felt damp and unwashed and decided that the first port of call was definitely a bath and then he had to go and speak to Holmes. He wasn't so blind that the disturbing and frankly frightening dream's meaning had been lost on him. His subconscious knew that all was not well and Watson needed to put things to rest.

He got up and walked, or somewhat hobbled, out of his study. And almost collided with Mary.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, falling back against the opposite wall with a look of alarm.

"Forgive me," Watson said hastily, feeling stupid and disgusting and trying to keep his distance from his clean, preened wife while he was covered in his own ejaculatory fluids.

"It's quite alright." She said, staring at him slightly wide-eyed and seeming a little flushed, he noted.

"Are you alright?" He asked her awkwardly.

"Fine." She said quickly. "I should go and... see what calling cards have been left for us."

And with that, she bustled away down the corridor.

**oOo**

Mary knew it was wrong to listen at doors. She had been taught so from a young age when she had been soundly beaten for eavesdropping on the men's after dinner smoking session one evening when she had been a girl. But she thought that, now she was full grown woman, there were definite different guidelines for what constituted eavesdropping and what was perfectly acceptable for a concerned and diligent wife.

She had only meant to ask her husband if he wanted tea but, on finding the door slightly ajar, and her husband emitting a rather alarming range of noises, she found it only proper that she investigate further.

On opening the door another inch, so she could see inside, she found a rather startling picture.

Her husband was at his desk, head down on top of it and faced towards her so she could see the strange contortions of his features. He was rocking violently backward and forward, grunting and groaning and occasionally garbling half-formed words and sentences she couldn't understand.

It was clear what he was doing and she didn't need the absence of his left hand from the table top to confirm her suspicions for her.

Masturbation was severely frowned upon in civilised society. Everyone _knew_ it was filthy and depraved practise, the lowest form of human activity, bred in the most vulgar corners of civilization and here was her husband indulging in such sick practises under her very roof! She was appalled.

She immediately withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her, terrified that a servant would overhear.

She flattened herself against the wall, a strange mixture of horror, disgust and jealousy pounding through her. Watson certainly had never reacted thus to any encounter _they_ had had.

She was beginning to feel very much concerned for her husband. He seemed to have completely lost himself in past weeks.

This occurrence only proved her suspicions that he was being influenced by some outside, unwelcome force. She wished deeply that she could discover and destroy that influence.

She wanted her husband back. The John Watson she had fallen in love with and married. She wanted desperately to discover the root of his erratic behaviour, his distance and coldness...

She felt a low pang in her stomach but shooed it away.

Suddenly, the door of the study flew open and her husband burst from the room, catching her quite off guard.

"Oh!" She burst out against her will.

She thought for half a second she had been caught, but the look of surprise on her husband's face told her otherwise.

"Forgive me," He said hastily, seeming keen to create some space between them as he edged away to the opposite wall.

"It's quite alright." Mary said as calmly as she could manage, straightening up and neatening her already pristine hair and dress.

"Are you alright?" Her husband asked her awkwardly.

"Fine." She replied quickly. "I should go and... see what calling cards have been left for us."

She turned from him and hurried away down the corridor, her mind already made up as to what she would do.


	7. Hard

It had been three days since Holmes had ordered Watson out of Baker Street and Holmes was just finding the will to leave his bed in the morning. His rooms were in a worse state than ever before, as was his person.

He was conscious of the fact that he smelt overwhelmingly of stale unwashed clothes, sweat, smoke and opium but the thought of washing, shaving, dressing for no one and nothing seemed like entirely too much effort to just make himself miserable and distraught.

What made it worse was that, do what he may and distract himself as he could, he found his thoughts always occupied by Watson. He was always there. There had been a time when he had been able to shut off all emotional thought without the slightest effort, but now his every thought was possessed by John Watson and still it wasn't enough. He was obsessed, he was infatuated. And he blamed the doctor squarely.

He had been treated badly. He did not intend to make the mistake of letting his emotions control his dignity and self-respect again. Not even for Watson, who besides had made no indication that he thought of Holmes as anything more than a convenient supplement to his marriage. Holmes may be unhappy all his days, but he wouldn't live knowing Watson could abandon him at any moment. Holmes didn't like the feeling of having someone else in control of his emotions.

He actually got out of bed that day. He got dressed and went into the living area. Then he stood and stared about the room, the stained drawn curtains, the dust coating almost everything, the strange objects here and there which he couldn't remember even bringing into the house. He felt restless.

The silence, the lack of human interaction inevitably made him think of Watson. What would the doctor be doing at this very moment?

Of course, that was a question he should have learnt by now not to ask himself because it always caused the most unnerving images to come to his confused and wounded mind. Even as angry as he was with Watson, he couldn't easily shrug away his attraction, his desire for the doctor.

He had never been used to such feelings. He may have felt almost similar things for Miss Adler. But even then, not really. He had never wanted to take her clothes off, bed her, wake up beside her. The thought of Watson acting out that part made his whole form burn. What had Watson done to him?

He was at a loss of how to quash such thoughts. He did not quite know how he was supposed to 'deal' with such thoughts. Well, actually. That was a lie. He did know how one 'dealt' with such thoughts, but unfortunately he had never attempted it and he found the very thought humiliating and dirty. He was sure that he would not be able to banish the feeling that he was being watched and judged from some hidden place.

On the other hand, he thought, peering down at the front of his trousers where a rather present bump was straining visibly, he didn't know when he would again be with Watson.

The most filthy images of Watson, wrists tied to the bed head, legs spread and his heat begging for Holmes's penetration were already crawling out from the dark parts of his mind. He couldn't seem to banish them; they elbowed their way stubbornly into his mind's eye.

Now as he stood alone in his rooms in Baker Street, staring around the dishevelled interior, feeling the dull ache of his unfulfilled arousal, he thought perhaps it was time to learn the act of which he had heard so much and knew so little.

He didn't know whether to sit or stand or lie. He pondered for a few moments, puzzled, considering the mechanics of each position. He finally decided to sit, and perched himself on the edge of his armchair. He felt uneasy and awkward. He knew he needed to relax but that did not come naturally or easily to him.

He gingerly sat back in the armchair, peering down at himself and wondering vaguely how he was supposed to begin. It was all so entirely foreign to him.

He undid the buttons on his trousers and shimmied them awkwardly down his thighs, gritting his teeth against the moan which the friction almost extracted from him.

When his trousers were around his knees, he peered down. He blushed to see his own erection straining away from his body. It was unnerving for the detective to look down at his own aroused flesh and see himself in this desperate state of desire. The head was already wet.

He closed his eyes. Looking at himself made the whole process vastly more humiliating.

But what was he supposed to do now?

He felt completely out of his depth. How did people do this? It was confusing and... embarrassing.

He moved his hand to take a hold of himself but lost his nerve at the last moment and lowered it again with a frustrated tut at himself.

He wished he had Watson with him to help guide his movements.

"Now, Holmes." He would say in his most businesslike tone, lying his strong, callused hand on Holmes's. "You need to relax. You're getting all tense, you'll overexert yourself."

"It's hard." Holmes whined, not opening his eyes.

The conjured image of Watson chuckled. "That's quite the point, old boy." Holmes pressed his hand harder into his skin. "Now just... move slowly. Let your body decide what it likes." Holmes's hand, as though guided by the imaginary Watson's hand moved itself gradually down Holmes's stomach to where his excited manhood was beginning to ache for contact.

The imagined image of Watson smirked, its grip on Holmes's hand tightened.

"Touch yourself." It hissed, voice husky and low, making Holmes dizzy with want. "Show me how I make you feel." He imagined Watson's lips against his skin; wet and sticky and soft.

Holmes knew he was making up the dialogue in his own mind but even the pretend Watson seemed to have an irresistible influence over his body. A surge of intense arousal went through him, filling every limb with heat. Without completely realising what he was doing, he found his hand suddenly around himself and immediately cried out at the contact.

" _Oh_ G-God. _W-Watson_... Oh, God..." He felt his mouth moving, but no more words came. He was utterly too bewildered by the new sensation of touching himself, of pleasuring himself and having complete control of exploring, stroking, experimenting with his body.

He thrust his hips upwards, hardly able to comprehend the wave of pleasure that had broken over him at the simple contact of his fingers around the straining appendage.

He began to move his hand over himself. He was clumsy and slow, he didn't quite know how to handle the movement but now that he had started, he didn't know if he could stop.

He stroked, his hand seeming to know how tightly it wanted to grip, his hips rocking as though on their own accord into the tight space between his palm and fingers. He was almost alarmed by how his body reacted to the tightness. This is how Watson felt, this is how it would feel to be inside of Watson.

He pushed hard into the back of armchair, trying to keep control of himself when he had never felt more out of control in his life.

"Oh, Watson." He moaned. "Oh, p-please, please Watson..."

He hardly needed help sustaining his arousal but the depraved images of Watson, submissive and helpless with pleasure, which he had been fruitless in resisting in past days certainly aided in his pursuit.

If he had given Holmes a chance to prove himself, Holmes would have done everything within his power to pleasure and comfort Watson. It would have been an unnerving reversal of roles but Holmes would have been gentle and he was sure Watson would have guided him, helped him. Why did the doctor have to be so damned proud? It would have been hard for Holmes too, to admit he knew nothing about giving pleasure in that fashion but he would have been willing to swallow his vanity. Doctor John Watson seemed to think himself far too sensible and... _married_ to make himself vulnerable, even to Holmes.

"Stupid... _idiot_." Holmes panted, straining his back forward against the build of tension under his hand. "Bloody _fool_ \- _Uh_!"

A sudden intense, tight throb had run through his aching shaft and he felt warm moisture burst under his hand. He had come.

He froze where he was, back arched upwards, hand wrapped tightly around himself, his eyes shut, his dry mouth open.

He flattened himself against the chair again, panting and feeling exhausted by his efforts, however brief. He stared up at the ceiling, a slight frown on his face. There was a pang in his chest.

He did not release himself yet. He felt uneasy and disappointed. How could he have climaxed so quickly? True, it had been intensely pleasurable, but so brief and abrupt that he thought he must have done something incorrectly.

He felt suddenly inadequate and foolish. How could he pleasure the doctor when he couldn't even pleasure himself for longer than a few minutes?

"Blast it." He hissed, finally unwinding his hand from his softening member.

He had wanted to show Watson that he was able to do more than just suck his cock, but this was not an encouraging start.

With a miserable sigh, he irritably yanked up his trousers and sunk sulkily into the chair.


	8. Fuck Me, Sodomize Me

On Wednesday night, Mary announced her intentions to go and stay briefly with her second-cousin... or perhaps it was her great-aunt? Watson hadn't really heard anything after the words 'I'll be away until tomorrow evening'.

He had waited an entire week for an opportunity to return to Baker Street, but Mary had been dogging his footsteps more closely than ever before. She wanted to know where he was going at any given time, how long he would be there, when he would be at home and every time Watson tried to slip away to see Holmes, Mary always seemed to be watching, accusing, judging.

So Watson stayed and stewed on his guilt and desperation to be back with Holmes. At home, life with Mary was beginning to become strained. It was clear, painfully clear in fact, that Mary did not trust him. It was also clear that her focus was no longer just on being happy with him but rather on her determination to fall pregnant. The more she pushed the matter, the more Watson wanted to recoil away from her and away from their marriage. The fantasies were no longer enough to stifle the fact that he was sleeping with someone who he was feeling increasingly resentful towards.

"Darling, I'm leaving."

Watson looked up from his desk; his wife was in the doorway. Looking beautiful as always in her travelling clothes, he noted. "Very well, safe trip." He said, going to kiss her.

He went to kiss her on the cheek but she caught his chin with her long, slim fingers and, with a hard look at him, brought his mouth firmly onto hers.

Watson felt his whole form go rigid as her mouth moved gently over his. Before he could force himself to relax into the movement, she had broken away. She did not look at him. Watson was too numb to wonder whether she avoided his eye on purpose.

"Goodbye." She said and left him.

**oOo**

That evening, Watson walked about the house for half an hour, just enjoying the bliss of being alone. At last. He had the luxury of walking from room to room without attracting the attention of his wife, without being questioned on every movement he made.

He retired to his bedroom a little after midnight. His bed seemed very large and empty without another body in it. He lit a candle beside it and undressed, letting his clothes fall to the floor and not bothering to tidy them away. Another forbidden luxury that marriage now deprived him of. He removed his jacket, trousers and underclothes and stood beside his bed in just his shirt, staring down at his bare legs. The pale whiteness of his upper thighs was swallowed by a ruddy sort of brownish colour on his lower legs where his army days had left their mark.

He suddenly felt overcome with tiredness. He fell onto the soft covers of the bed, groaning a little at the lift of pressure off of his feet and legs.

He laid back into the pillows, relishing the thought of being alone, undisturbed in his own room, with the door locked and barely dressed.

Tomorrow he would go and see Holmes. He didn't know what would follow. He preferred not to think about it.

He sunk down further into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling and letting his thoughts wander, free from the restraints of his unease and anxiety for once.

But he was never truly free from his unease and anxiety. His thoughts were haunted by Holmes. Always by Holmes.

He knew very well that he shouldn't have hit him, but God, hadn't he been provoked?

_Yes_ , he told himself firmly, he had definitely been provoked.

For a few moments he was silent, staring blankly straight ahead.

He sighed and shook his head with a frown. No matter how he attempted to justify it, nothing Holmes could ever do or say made Watson hurting him alright.

Watson was just weak.

Having come to that conclusion, he sat in silence.

Every one of his senses seemed to have sharpened in the silence and solitude of the night. Especially his hearing. His hearing seemed intent on picking up every little sound uttered from every corner it could detect. There was a dog barking somewhere off in the distance. There were footsteps coming from above where the servants slept. There was a carriage go past on the stones outside. And somewhere in London, away from Watson, Holmes was breathing. Smoking, sleeping, bathing, eating, reading. Breathing.

Watson could almost hear him from where he sat. He could almost see him. Smell him. Feel him. And he knew Holmes was thinking of him.

"Learn what it's like." Watson heard himself mutter, gazing at the shadows moving languidly across the door. "You need to learn what it's like..."

He was quoting his own subconscious. He was sure that if anyone else had done so, he would have called them insane but the dreamed up apparition of Holmes had made more sense than any of Watson's waking justifications had ever done.

As though on its own accord, his left hand left it's place on the bedcovers beside him and moved itself to the buttons on his shirt. He undid them. Not hurriedly. He tended to each one carefully, never taking his eyes off of the door.

He was only partially aware of what he was doing. His body seemed to have detached itself from his confused and floundering psyche and was taking matters into its own hands, so to speak.

He moved his hands slowly down his stomach. The various cracks and calluses were rough against his skin, but not unpleasant. His stomach muscles flinched at the gentle touch of his fingertips over the sensitive places of his torso, the area over his kidneys, the space between his bellybutton and his hips and the particularly reactive area around his pubic bone.

He felt a foolish relief that no one could read minds, because his thoughts were currently recounting a certain dream whose details he would not have wanted to share with anyone. He could almost feel the bonds around his wrists where he lay, the cloth across his eyes, Holmes's hands on his waist.

The sensation of being helpless, of being the one dominated and used, quite frankly, made him hard. For the days following his unusual dream, he had had to avoid thinking about it with all his might or it was as good as giving himself a hand job in public.

He was almost ashamed to admit it to himself but he wished he hadn't woken before he had been fucked. By his own cane...

He removed his hands from his stomach like he had been given an electric shock. "God that's sick." He mumbled, putting a hand to his forehead. "How can I even think such things?"

Holmes would never have him now. He was more capable of numbing his emotions than Watson was, no matter what recent circumstances may have suggested on that front. Watson could pretend quite aptly that he didn't care and that nothing Holmes said or did affected him and he could do a very good job in the part but when it came down to it, he hurt and Holmes didn't. Holmes sulked and brooded and then shot up and numbed it all away. He'd been through the motion so many times that Watson was sure Holmes had done away with any emotions he had once had.

And that made Watson very bitter.

And it was as though a strange, sick jealousy and possessiveness came over him, willing him to hurt and damage Holmes as much as possible, to make him hurt and keep him as Watson's. Only Watson's.

Or perhaps Holmes just frustrated him into another person, who he didn't like and didn't want to be.

It was all so very confusing. Watson sunk lower and lower into the pillows until he was almost flat.

And then, without thinking, he began to touch himself.

A little surprised gasp left his lips but he didn't stop, he slid his callused fingers around his hardening length and stroked. Not roughly and deeply as he usually did but in long, measured movements without too much pressure.

He rocked his hips gently in motion, spreading his legs a little wider so that the heat beneath his cock was exposed. He propped his knees up, laying his feet flat on the covers.

He was glad he had locked the door. If any maid happened to walk in on this sight it was sure to scar her for the rest of her natural life.

Pushing that humiliating thought to one side (Watson was no exhibitionist) he tightened his grip a little around himself, rubbing in stronger, harder strokes now.

"That's right, Holmes." He found himself saying tightly, as he moved in and out of his grip, hips and chest leading the rest of his body in its hungry pursuit. "That's... ah _yes_."

He had never spoken aloud before while touching himself. He was bemused to find that it seemed only to intensify the sensations, it was as though Holmes was there. As though Holmes was pleasuring him or watching him and doing the same to himself-

That thought sent an intense hot shiver through Watson and he cried out. Louder than he should have.

He threw a hand to his mouth, hoping that no one overheard him and thought to come running, thinking he had fallen out of bed.

"This is your entire fault, Holmes." He thought to himself, as though the detective could hear him. "I was never this depraved before I set eyes on you."

Holmes would just smirk and cock an eyebrow. "I _do_ tend to inspire such tendencies. What can I say? It's a gift."

Even in Watson's own head, Holmes was an irritating, self-satisfied twerp.

Watson closed his eyes, his thighs were beginning to become wet and sore. From sweat and his own arousal. It was sticky and hot. His whole form felt hot, even though it was actually a quite mild evening.

His mind was a convoluted confusion of Holmes on his knees begging for it and Holmes behind him threatening to impale him on his cane and Holmes beneath him while he moved up and down on the detective's swollen sex in a rough, fierce rhythm. His loins gave an ache. Then his entrance followed, giving a low throb of which Watson was certain he knew the cause.

His body wanted to be fucked as much as he did.

"Oh, God..." He panted. "I want to be fucked. God. Damn. It."

With that, his fingertips covered in his own excitement, he dove two of his fingers inside of himself and had to bite down on his other hand to stifle the scream of mingled pain and ecstasy which was forced from his throat.

What instead rose was a strangled whine like a kicked dog. He thrust upwards, and came in violent spurts onto his stomach.

He threw his head back, pressing as hard as his tortured body would allow into the bed and rocking hard onto himself and hardly able to stop himself from moaning Holmes's name again and again and again.

"Oh Holmes." He whimpered, lying flat on the bed, covered in sweat and semen and breathing so roughly that it hurt. "Oh Jesus, Holmes."

He had not orgasmed so hard or so violently for a very long time. 'Pleasure' did not quite cover the aggressive surge of ecstasy that had burnt through his entire form when he had released.

He felt limp, completely depleted of energy. He finally removed his fingers from himself, which hurt a bit and laid himself completely flat on the bed, staring vaguely up at the ceiling.

He sat upright with difficulty, blinking blearily around him.

"I have to go see Holmes." He mumbled, tumbling over the side of the bed and feeling around for his trousers.

**oOo**

Watson was dressed within ten minutes and crept down into the semi-darkness of the house. Everything was still and quiet, everyone had turned in hours ago.

He donned his hat and coat and slipped out the front door. He didn't take a key. He knew he would not return tonight, no matter what happened when he arrived on Holmes's doorstep.

He was already determined that he would walk to Baker Street if necessary, despite the fact that his legs were already sore and weak from his enthusiastic wanking, but luckily he managed to find a hansom cab willing to take him.

He usually would rehearse what he was going to say, try and make up something even mildly plausible for his barrelling over there in the middle of the night besides having a fit of regret and guilt and, admittedly, horniness.

When he arrived, he was lucky to have coins in his pocket to pay the driver and then he went up to Holmes's rooms, stepping carefully on the stairs and barely daring to breathe. He was sure that it was well past midnight. If it had been anyone else, he would have assumed they were asleep but he knew very well that Holmes's unhealthy sleeping patterns meant that he was often awake into the small hours of the morning.

Watson reached the door and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. Then he went to knock but realised with a jolt of surprise that it was already slightly ajar.

Watson only hesitated for half a moment. He was used to coming and going as he pleased but since being kicked out of Baker Street a week ago, he felt conscious that barging into Holmes's living space was not the way to win him back.

However, old habits die hard so he pushed open the door and went in.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks.

Holmes was slumped in his usual armchair with his shirt hitched up around his ribs and his trousers unbuttoned and his hand working visibly up and down himself in hungry, rapid strokes. His head was back, his eyes closed, his back curved upward. There was a look on his face that Watson had seen often enough to recognise immediately as someone close to their release.

Watson wasn't aware of being present in the scene. His body seemed to have gone numb with shock.

It wasn't until he felt his cane leave his hand and heard it land with what sounded like a deafening 'thud' on the floorboards that he was brought sharply back to earth.

Holmes jolted upwards, his eyes wide, his hand still buried in his trouser front. "Watson!" He spluttered, trying to retain his dignity while being caught in such a position. He immediately went bright red and snatched his hand from himself, his breathing unsteady. "What are you doing here?" He demanded.

The detective was obviously embarrassed though Watson hardly knew why. Holmes was almost as breathtaking when he was pleasuring himself as he was in the afterglow of his release.

Watson didn't speak, instead he removed his coat and hat and let them fall beside his already fallen cane and then he went to Holmes and wordlessly pressed his lips to the detective's.

Holmes whimpered underneath him, clutching onto Watson's shirt like a child. Watson put a hand under Holmes's chin, cupping him gently and pulling him deeper into the kiss. He had wanted to kiss Holmes like this for a long time. What had stopped him?

The detective's mouth tasted like alcohol and tobacco. Suddenly everything about his kiss was brought sharply into focus like it never had before. The taste, sensation, weight, warmth of Holmes's mouth were suddenly so strong that Watson was surprised he had never kissed someone like this before. Kissing Holmes was more than just pleasurable, it was glorious. It was like his senses were being caressed as well as his body.

Finally they broke apart but Holmes did not let go of Watson's shirt. He was staring at Watson with a look which betrayed his emotions more clearly than Watson knew he would have wanted to. He was suddenly in front of Watson not as a genius or a prodigy or even as a detective, but merely a man who needed to be held and loved and cared for. By Watson.

Holmes pulled Watson on top of him so that he was on his lap, keeping the doctor's face close to his, their noses almost touching. "Watson..." He said shakily, not releasing the doctor from his arms. "I need you like no one else on earth. I don't _want_ anyone else. Just you. Always you."

Watson had never heard Holmes speak so candidly on matters so painful to him.

Watson put his lips to the detective's forehead. "You know I will always be yours." He mumbled into Holmes's skin. "I have been inexcusable to you, Holmes. I don't ever expect you to forgive me."

Holmes said nothing but Watson could feel him breathing calmly and deeply, as though the words soothed his wounded heart. Watson lowered his lips with difficulty to Holmes's ear.

"Use me." He said huskily, feeling the desire beginning to well up inside of him again. "I want to feel you moving inside of me."

Holmes looked up at him with wide eyes, clearly astonished at that request. "What?" He said uncertainly.

"I want you to fuck me." Watson said in a low voice, feeling entirely humbled but not hating the sensation as he thought he would.

Holmes studied his face as though looking for a sign of dishonesty. Then a slight smirk crept across his lips, Watson felt himself flush. "What?" He said again, this time with an almost undetectable but nonetheless present edge of smugness to his tone.

Watson held his gaze. "Fuck me." He said at length, he claimed Holmes's mouth again. "Sodomize me." He growled.

Holmes shivered. "Oh, Watson." He breathed into the kiss.

Watson ran his tongue along Holmes's bottom lip but Holmes suddenly clutched Watson by the chin and pulled him roughly away. Watson looked visibly abashed.

"Now, now, that's enough of that." Holmes said, almost businesslike. "You're mine now, Watson and you will play by my rules." He smirked at the look of fearful excitement on the doctor's face. "Now. On your knees."


	9. Sodomy and Submission

Watson didn't move. He stared at Holmes, feeling frozen where he was. His cock was hard. He couldn't help feeling a flicker of foolish pride at his ability to get it up even after already climaxing rather violently once before that evening.

It was peculiar to see Holmes looking so stern and menacing. Watson was used to being in control. Watson was used to seeing Holmes's upturned face, desperate, pleading, begging for it. Now he was in control. He could give and take as he pleased. And Watson wanted it. Badly.

He had to swallow the urge to beg Holmes just to bend him over the nearest hard surface and fuck him until he bled. Holmes was not going to be that easy on him. He was going to make him work for that honour. Watson's prick gave a throb of excitement at the prospect.

Holmes clasped Watson's chin tightly with one hand. It hurt a little. His nails were digging into Watson's flesh. "On your knees." He said in a low voice, eyes blazing.

Watson's eyes flickered, he felt like his body had turned to jelly. That voice- low, deep, dominating- was enough to make him orgasm where he stood. He managed to keep himself together. Just.

Watson held his gaze for a few moments and then he slowly lowered himself onto his knees. He felt Holmes's hands fall away. His eyes were perfectly level with Holmes's crotch. The fly was unbuttoned. He was bulging against his underclothes. Watson wanted to take him in his hands, touch him, caress him, hear him moan but he didn't dare. He was frightened that if he pushed too hard, Sherlock would retreat back into his shell and Watson would never be able to coax him out again.

Holmes no longer looked lost and helpless. He didn't betray himself as he had done before. His features were the picture of nonchalance, as though seeing Watson on his knees, vulnerable and at his command was almost boring to him. He liked this new game. This new form of punishing Watson while also pleasuring him. As always, experimentation was Holmes's forte.

"This position becomes you, Watson." Holmes said coolly, looking down at the doctor with one eyebrow raised in pointed disdain. "I like you on your knees."

Watson watched Holmes under his eyelids, waiting to see what the detective would do next. He was sure that he was playing; pretending he knew what he was doing when really, inside, he was as bewildered by the pleasures of the flesh as ever.

Watson wondered if he could ever accept Holmes as a dominant figure. He wanted to. He wanted Holmes to speak to him in that low growl, order him onto his hands and knees or onto his back, force him to submit and succumb. But he didn't know if the detective had the capacity yet.

Finally, Holmes spoke. "Open your mouth."

Watson started slightly; he had been gazing up at Holmes and had quite forgotten that he was supposed to be being punished. He began to open it but apparently not quickly enough for Holmes, who gripped his chin and yanked it down. Watson stared up in surprise at the detective, his jaw have a protesting ache at the rough treatment.

Holmes gave a half smile of satisfaction; he was staring intently at Watson's mouth. "Yes." He breathed, as he slid two fingers between Watson's lips.

Watson's eyes widened slightly, he hadn't expected _that_. He felt a trickle of saliva run down his chin. "Mmm so warm." Holmes mumbled. "This is what it's going to feel like when I have you. Wet and hot... and tight. I'm going to be the first person to break you." He pushed his fingers deeper. "You're going to beg me for it, old boy."

Watson's eyes almost rolled back. Now he understood what Holmes was doing. He unwisely attempted to speak but only a thick, muffled sound emerged. "Ah, yes." Holmes smiled. "Best not to try and talk. It can induce asphyxiation."

Watson felt his fingers going deeper, almost at the point where his gag reflex would kick in. He felt a flicker of panic and immediately a shiver of excitement and arousal went down his spine.

Then quite suddenly, Holmes withdrew his hand. Watson choked, eyes widening slightly.

"Holmes..." He said in a low voice.

"Shh." Holmes said sweetly, undoing the remainder of the buttons on his trousers. "Tonight, your mouth isn't for talking." He paused with a beatific smile. "Besides you'll undo all my good work. Your throat is relaxed now."

Watson licked his lips in anticipation. He had never taken Holmes.

Holmes took his own sweet time in getting out of his trousers. He undid the buttons so slowly and worked the band of his trousers down so carefully that by the time they were around his thighs and his wet length was revealed to Watson, Watson was gagging for it. So to speak.

Holmes had clearly been forcing his features to remain indifferent but as he handled himself a look of desperation flitted momentarily across his face. He seemed to inwardly berate himself for it because half a moment later his features had hardened again and he had taken Watson's chin, tugging his mouth open again.

He looked hard at Watson's face. "I want you to unbutton yourself. I want to look at you."

Watson couldn't help but feel a little scandalized by that request. Holmes smirked. Watson must have looked it too. "What?" He said faintly, feeling dizzy as he looked up at Holmes's steely gaze.

"Undo yourself." Holmes repeated in the same calm tone, his fingertips pressed into Watson's chin. "Pull your trousers down your thighs. And then do the same to your underclothes."

Watson swallowed, moving a hand to the band of his trousers, Holmes would not take his eyes off of his. They were boring into his skull. Watson clumsily undid his buttons; his fingers were trembling so much that he could barely get them out of the holes.

When they were undone, he glanced up at Holmes. Holmes's expression did not change. His eyes were fixed to Watson's crotch.

Watson slowly pulled his trousers down with one hand, his sex throbbed eagerly against the material as it slid down against it.

"Oh," He moaned as he released himself from the confinement of his trousers.

Holmes's fingers were embedded in Watson's skin, he was gazing at Watson's hardened length.

Watson moved a hand to take himself but immediately Holmes tightened his grip on his chin so that it actually hurt, his nails pressed into his skin. "Do not touch yourself." He ordered.

Watson swallowed. His cock gave a protesting throb but he obeyed.

Holmes's eyes trailed to his mouth again. He finally removed his hand from Watson's chin and ran a finger down Watson's lips. He pushed it gently between them and dampened it and then lifted it to his lips and tasted it. Watson watched him with widened eyes, wondering vaguely if it was possible to die from arousal.

Then Holmes teased a hand down himself, his eyes no longer on Watson. Watson watched, frozen, as Holmes stroked his hand up his straining manhood. His fingers were trembling but other than that, he seemed perfectly apt to touch himself in front of Watson without so much as blushing.

Watson was sure he could have overpowered Holmes, manoeuvred him into an accommodating position and had his wicked way with him without too much complaint from the detective but he was interested to see what Holmes would do to break his spirit.

"You're going to take me in your mouth." Holmes said suddenly, still playing with himself with one hand, his eyes now fastened on Watson's face. "I'm going to watch you work. I want to see your clumsy, incompetent mouth put to better use."

A shiver of electricity went up Watson's spine. His desire for Holmes had surpassed the boundaries of anything he had felt before. The arousal he felt _hurt_. His whole body was aching for it.

Holmes widened Watson's mouth with his fingers until Watson's jaw clicked painfully and then he pushed himself rather roughly inside, letting out a low growl as he did.

Holmes's cock was not unsubstantial (though Watson felt, with a second foolish twinge of pride, it was probably not quite as substantial as his) and it went deep into his throat, almost prompting his gag reflex again but Watson managed, after the initial shock of such a strange violation of his body, to gather his composure.

He took Holmes's thighs, which he was sure the detective would not have allowed if he had been in any state to stop him. His hand was lost in Watson's hair, though notably gentler than Watson's own grip when their roles had been reversed. His other was on his stomach, the fingers curling and uncurling as he rocked himself helplessly into Watson.

Watson, if he had been able to with Holmes's entire length buried in his mouth, would have smiled wanly at that. Holmes had tried. But he was too unused to dominating and his body was not seasoned to pleasures of the flesh. He had been a virgin before he'd lain with Watson, he was not ready to take a stronger role in their lovemaking- yet.

Or so Watson thought.

Without thinking, one of his hands had strayed from Holmes's hip to take his own swollen flesh in hand but Holmes, with his usual ability to see all even when his eyes were closed, managed to croak:

"Hands off, Watson. Or I'll be forced to discipline you."

Watson couldn't help wondering what that discipline might entail, even as his jaw began to twinge at the pressure of having Holmes so deeply embedded in his throat.

Having decided Watson was taking too many liberties, Holmes fixed him with a cold gaze, his grip in Watson's hair tightening slightly.

But he barely suppressed a cry when Watson licked the base of his shaft just to see what would happen. "Uh! Watson!"

_That's right, scream my name_ , Watson thought in mixed amusement and triumph.

Holmes seemed to curse his own weakness, for he began to thrust rather more aggressively, until he was more or less fucking Watson's mouth.

Watson could have taken the rough treatment, despite the fact that the view of Holmes, now damp with sweat with his trousers around his thighs, his shirt around his ribs and his face torn between ecstasy and frustration was enough to drive him to a fit of passion. What he could not take was what Holmes began to hiss to him in a low voice as he moved in and out of Watson's throbbing jaws.

"I've always been intrigued by how you would look in a state of submission." Holmes said, in an admirably calm voice for someone having their cock sucked. "It suits you rather well. I should like to see you on all fours."

Watson felt weak at the knees. Was Sherlock Holmes _talking dirty_ to him?

That seemed to be his new tactic when he growled: "I should like to take you on your knees." Holmes only barely suppressed a moan at his own words. "I should like to penetrate you while you beg and writhe beneath me."

Watson stared up at Holmes, his eyes as round as teacups. Holmes's dirty talk was, if possible, making him even harder. The detective was terrible at it. He sounded as if he was commenting on the weather or had read the words in a dictionary and didn't quite grasp the full meaning of what he was saying. But it was irresistible to Watson. Merely for the fact that it was _him_ and the sheer thought of Holmes as a wild, sexual being behind his poise and coldness was, in itself, orgasmic.

"Ughh," Watson moaned pleadingly into Holmes's shaft.

Holmes raised an eyebrow as best he could when his features were forcing themselves into a look of total abandon. "Mm, you want it. You want me to sodomize you."

To communicate his acquiescence, Watson took Holmes particularly hard into his mouth, caressing the base of his shaft with his teeth as he did.

" _Uh_." Holmes threw his head back, his nails now pressed rather painfully into Watson's skull, though he hardly cared. " _Yes._ Gods."

_He's going to come soon_ , thought Watson, _he can't possibly keep this up._

Even Sherlock Holmes's self-control had its limits. Even Sherlock Holmes was not immune to being handled in such a manner as Watson was used to doing. Watson knew Holmes would come. Watson intended it.

He moved his hands from Holmes's thighs and began to mould and rub him between his fingertips. Holmes had never said he couldn't touch _him_. Holmes let out a mew, his hands desperately clinging onto Watson's hair. "Oh," He sounded lost. As though all his will to dominate had drained away. "W-Watson..." He whimpered, arching himself against him.

Watson couldn't help pitying Holmes. He really hadn't had a chance. Watson was seasoned. He had been in the army, after all.

Holmes seemed to have lost the capacity to speak, his mouth was open, his face arranged into a traumatized expression as Watson worked him between his fingers. Pre-cum was leaking from Holmes's cock now, he licked it away, relishing the desperate moan Holmes uttered when he did.

Watson remembered what Holmes had done weeks beforehand when their roles had been reversed. He had not forgotten and he was interested to see how the detective would react to the same tactic.

If his mouth hadn't been full of cock, Watson would have smirked.

His joined two fingers and plunged them into Holmes's entrance.

Holmes's whole form shook violently and the scream which would have emerged seemed to get caught in his throat so that only a strangled, choking whine emerged.

"W-Watson!" He whimpered, bucking his hips forward as he came.

Watson calmly received the rest of Holmes's length, feeling the warm gush of his seed burst into his mouth. He swallowed it.

"Oh Gods." Holmes moaned. "Oh Gods."

Watson dug his fingers deeper into Holmes's tightness and Holmes's whole body gave a forceful convulsion. He now looked so lost and confused by his body's sudden violence that Watson couldn't help but feel a rush of amused affection towards the baffled detective.

He released Holmes from his mouth as the detective sunk down onto his knees. He slid his fingers out from inside Holmes and watched as he slumped against his armchair.

Watson didn't move from his position on his knees, his trousers were still around his knees and his erection was still throbbing relentlessly for release. Holmes looked delectable collapsed where he was, dishevelled and damp and blinking confusedly at Watson as though he didn't quite know how he'd got there.

Watson cleared his throat. He was still intensely aroused and felt a little disappointed that Holmes's attempt to subjugate him had gone a little awry.

"I'm sorry, old boy." He said, wincing slightly at the sensation of his unfulfilled arousal.

Holmes looked at him. He knew he was being pitied for his lack of sexual experience. A dark look flitted across his face.

Yanking his trousers up with one hand, he crawled to his feet and stood up before Watson, putting a finger firmly under Watson's chin to make him look up at him. "I don't think we're done yet." His eyes raked Watson's length. "I intend to _take_ what's mine." He smirked again. Watson felt his stomach swoop.

"Down on your hands and knees, if you please, dear Watson." Holmes spoke calmly, after his first loss of control, he now seemed determined to keep his power hold the second time around.

Watson, of course, obeyed. He crawled onto his hands and knees, putting his head down.

Holmes moved behind him, pressing himself against Watson. Watson jumped. Holmes chuckled. "You are a fine specimen, Watson."

"Thank you, Holmes." Watson replied through gritted teeth.

Holmes slid his hands under Watson's shirt and began undoing the buttons. Watson didn't attempt to stop him. When he'd finished that, Holmes began to tease Watson's skin. His fingers were soft and warm. He dragged them up Watson's stomach to his nipples, pinching them gently and hearing Watson's sharp inhalation as he did.

"Mm. You like that?" Holmes said, stroking them. "Your nipples are hard."

"It's cold." Watson gasped.

Holmes made a non-committal sound and moved his hands lower over Watson's form. He enjoyed exploring, it made the process of anything new less menacing or intimidating. He stroked the incline between Watson's hips and privates, taking his time to come to his cock, which was weeping for attention.

He slid a hand around it. Watson threw his head back with a grunt.

Holmes moved his hand lightly up and down it, teasingly. Not hard enough to release any of the tension which had built.

"I suppose I should prepare you." Holmes said lightly, massaging Watson's length with one hand.

Watson jerked.

"But I don't have any oil." Holmes went on with a sigh. "And I should regret to leave you when you are in such a... shall we say... _vulnerable_ position?"

Watson's form tensed.

"Saliva might do well enough." Holmes mused.

His hand left Watson's cock. He lent across and pushed his fingers into Watson's mouth. Watson's eyes widened but he did not protest.

Holmes extracted his damp fingers, Watson's saliva covered them. He moved back behind Watson, admiring the doctor's position.

Holmes's own flaccid manhood gave a twinge, he found himself growing stiff again beneath his trousers. He was somewhat surprised that he had recovered so quickly after Watson's assault, though he would never admit it to him in a million years.

He considered Watson on his hands and knees. He felt a pang as he realised that he didn't actually know _how_ to properly prepare Watson and as much as the doctor deserved to be punished, he didn't want to cause him great pain as a result of his inexperience.

He cringed, wondering what Watson would say if Holmes were to ask him how it was done.

No, he decided, he would have to work it out for himself.

He dampened his fingers again, this time with his own spit and looked over Watson's rather fetching behind. He needed to spread his legs wider.

"Put your knees further apart." He ordered. Watson obeyed. Holmes felt a twinge of delight at Watson's submission.

Holmes slid his fingers down to where Watson's tight entrance was. Unbroken and unused to the attentions. Holmes gently teased the skin to gauge Watson's reaction.

Watson hunched his back and made a deep, gurgling sound in his throat. Holmes took that to mean he liked it. Tentatively, he slid his two fingers further into the heat, only having Watson's grunts and barely suppressed whimpers to determine whether he was enjoying it. This new violation of his body.

"Oh!" Watson's whole body jerked like he had been electrocuted when Holmes dared to push his fingers fully in. " _Oh_!"

It wasn't a cry of pain. Holmes felt heartened. "You're so tight, Watson." He hissed.

Watson groaned, his body shuddering.

"You'll soon be mine wholly. Body and soul." Holmes smiled to himself in spite of the fact he was supposed to be angry at Watson. "You're going to orgasm for me. I'm going to see the look on your face when you come to climax."

"Yes, Holmes." Watson said feebly, playing his part well.

Holmes removed his fingers and straightened up. "I can't take you on all fours like a dog." He said shortly. "I want to look at you when I take you."

Watson let out a protesting moan. His loins were in agony. "Ohh please, Holmes. Just take me. Take me, please. I need you inside me... _now_."

Holmes felt dizzy at that request but he stood his ground. "Come." Holmes returned to his armchair.

"I will soon, if you don't bloody hurry up." Watson grumbled, crawling around to see where Holmes had gone.

Holmes fell into the armchair and spread his legs, yanking his trousers back down to their position around his thighs. He was fully aroused again and finally ready to take Watson.

Watson half crawled, half waddled to Holmes, clawed his way up the chair and sat on his knees, panting slightly. "You'll kill me one of these days." He mumbled.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I hope you've learnt your lesson. Next time I shan't be so very lenient."

"Oh please don't be." Watson breathed, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Holmes's.

Holmes slid his hands around Watson's waist, gently urging him forward. Watson raised himself up and gently, carefully lowered himself onto Holmes's manhood. Both of them were shaking slightly. Both of them were privately frightened, though they would never have admitted it.

With Holmes's mouth on his, Watson felt something enter him deep and hard and he cried out against Holmes's mouth. It hurt. It really, really hurt.

"Holmes!"

Holmes wouldn't have been able to stop even if he had realised Watson's discomfort. The strange surge of pleasure that being inside of Watson had caused had driven every sensible thought from his head.

He pushed himself deeper into Watson, the tautness around his shaft was sending throbs of ecstasy up deep inside of him.

It wasn't until Watson half sobbed: "Sherlock..." against his mouth that he realised that the dampness in his lap may not just be the product of arousal. He froze. He had hurt Watson. He had done something wrong and he'd hurt him.

"Watson." He croaked. "I'm so sorry."

Watson struggled to look him in the eye. His eyes looked damp. He said nothing.

"I'm sorry." Holmes said again softly, pressing a hand to Watson's cheek. "We can stop if you like."

Watson stared at him for a moment and then his face hardened. "No. Keep going." He said through gritted teeth.

Holmes was taken aback. "But-

"Keep going!" Watson snapped, gripping both Holmes's shoulders and impaling himself once again on Holmes's cock.

"Holy mother of God!" Holmes exclaimed, without being able to stop himself.

He was still stunned, even as his own hips began to find a rhythm against and inside of Watson.

Watson winced as he was violated again and again. He was bleeding. That much he was sure of. The scandalized look on Holmes's face made the whole situation almost comical.

His body wasn't used to this treatment at all.

But after a few minutes or perhaps less, Watson found that with each thrust, it became easier. In fact, as he brought himself down onto Holmes yet again, he found that there was a strange surge of pressure up his privates. And it had felt far from unpleasant. As though he had finally found the right spot.

He was so surprised he let out a " _Ah_!" and Holmes peered at him anxiously.

"Again." He told the detective. "Fuck me there again."

Holmes obliged.

The surge of pleasure was stronger this time and seemed to surge up through him and up to his throat. "Oh! Yes! Sherlock again!" Surprising himself with the sound of Holmes's Christian name on his lips.

Holmes rocked again inside of him, moving his hands to Watson's thighs to hold him in place.

Watson moaned. "Ohh Sherlock, yes. Yes, yes, yes. I need you to do that again. Faster. _Harder._ "

Holmes smirked between thrusts. "Do you like that?" He panted, forcing himself deeper inside the doctor and crying out in unison with him.

"Yes! Yes! Please!" Watson no longer resembled the stiff, painfully neat doctor Holmes knew so well; his shirt was hanging off of him, leaving his torso bare for Holmes to enjoy, his hair was dishevelled beyond recognition and his face had completely lost control of his emotions. He was begging for it like Holmes had never expected. Holmes liked it. He liked being in control.

The trauma of the first few thrusts had been quite atoned for by this turn of events for Watson. He was currently in a state of passion so all consuming that he doubted he could have told his own name had he been asked it. Every time he felt Holmes push deeply inside of him, his eyes rolled back, his hips bucked forward to meet Holmes's, his head fell back with a cry that seemed to come from deep inside his belly.

He was vaguely aware of crying out Holmes's name again and again and of Holmes grunting beneath him but everything else was a blur. Everything else was a distant mass of colour and shape, only he and Holmes were in focus.

His thighs were tightly pressed against Holmes's, Holmes's hands were clutching his thighs, fingers embedded in his flesh. He was sure the look of helpless bliss on Holmes's face must have mirrored in his. He pushed his hands through Holmes's hair and put his head back, a breathless moan forcing its way from his lips with every thrust.

He could feel the bubble inside of him building. It was simmering hotly. He looked at Holmes. Holmes's face was damp with sweat and there was a desperate, taut expression coming across his features as he strained deeper inside of Watson, in search of his own impending climax.

As Holmes had predicted or had _planned_ , he did watch Watson orgasm. He watched as the doctor's face became completely lost in its own pleasure, its own ecstasy. As the bubble popped and the doctor finally lost control of himself. His eyes rolled back and his mouth cried out. Every feature was possessed by passion.

"Ohh! Oh Sherlock!" He sobbed. " _Ugh_!" He came violently, in no small amount, onto Holmes's and his stomach. He convulsed against Holmes, completely unable to control himself, completely bewildered and completely Holmes's.

Holmes's own climax followed and he felt his seed rush inside of Watson. He gasped for air; his mind had been wiped blank by pleasure. Watson's look of ecstasy seemed only to make him come harder.

Both were in a sort of state of shock for a long while afterwards. Holmes was still buried inside of Watson. Watson had collapsed against Holmes and was breathing and whimpering into his chest.

Holmes's mind had been wiped clean. He couldn't think of anything to say. No quip or comment on his victory. He just held Watson and stared ahead, wondering how anything could ever be the same again.


	10. Lies

Mary had never lied to John. Not in all the time she had known him, before and during their marriage. As a matter of fact, she didn't lie as a rule. Until this moment.

She had lied to John; she had looked him in the eye and calmly told him something which she knew wasn't true. She hadn't flinched or blushed. Lying had come very naturally to her, which both surprised and dismayed her. She hoped very much that today would be the last time she would have to lie to her husband. Telling him of her impromptu journey to visit her nonexistent 'second-cousin' had been in the name of the greater good. She felt as though he was slipping away from her. And she was determined to know why.

There was a hotel close by their house. It wasn't fashionable or popular so it had been easy to find a room facing the road. From her window she could comfortably see the corner of their street. There was a lone street lamp near it, sending a circular glow of watery yellow light in a perfect ring around it.

She paid a boy who had been selling eel pies by the door of the hotel to keep watch over her house. She had told him that the moment someone stepped outside the front door, no matter what time of the night, he was to run to that street corner and signal to her. She didn't care if it took until dawn, she would wait. She had had to pay him more than she could really afford but she was sure that it would be worth it. It was in the name of truth.

She sat in a chair by the window, partly hidden behind the curtain, watching the corner and feeling her heart beat restlessly in her chest. She hardly dared to remove her eyes from it for one moment. She was anxious that something would go wrong and the boy would not stick to his part of the deal. But she was also frightened that if he did and he appeared on that street corner it would mean that her suspicions had been correct. It was almost unbearable. She drank some wine to calm her nerves but it hardly helped, it just made her drowsy and she knew she could not sleep.

Since their marriage, now months beforehand, John had been cold and distant from her. He was no longer interested in what she spoke about. He no longer cared about petty things like where they would go on holiday and what wallpaper would look best where in the house. He didn't even attempt to humour her these days. When they made love, he didn't hold her as he had on their first night together. He seemed absent. As though he had mentally removed himself from the scene. She was terrified that he had taken a mistress.

If he had, she would confront him and attempt to bring him back into her arms. But if it was something worse...

In the darkness her mind conjured up hideous secrets. Deformed or lunatic half brothers, illegitimate children, opium dens, prostitution. If it was something worse than a mistress, she was hardly sure if she was strong enough to take it. She loved her husband but she did not know if she was prepared.

But she had to know. She had to know what had caused such a change in her husband's disposition. What had changed her once generous, loving, warm husband into someone cold, dismissive and indifferent. She had to know.

The hours dragged past, torturously slow and silent. She shivered by the window, leaning deeper and deeper into the curtains, keeping a shawl tightly about her shoulders and gazing at the street corner. Every shadow, passing carriage, stray animal or passing drunkard made her jerk in fright. Every footstep, distant voice, creaking floorboard, groaning pipe made her heart flutter in alarm.

Finally, soon after midnight, just as her eyes were becoming heavy and sore with tiredness, out of the corner of her eye she saw movement at the street corner. She jolted upright, staring as the young boy slunk from the darkness, staring up directly at her, though she knew he couldn't have possibly seen her lurking behind the curtains, and let out a low whistle.

Mary froze. She knew that was the signal. Someone had left the house. It had to be her husband. No one else would venture out alone at this late hour. No one with honourable intentions.

She didn't waste another moment. She dragged herself from her chair, ignoring the pain in her unused legs and fleeing from the room and down the stairs, through the deserted lobby to the street. Even at this late hour, cabriolets and hansoms were lurking about, waiting to be of use to drunks and dollymops.

She hailed one without difficulty and told the driver to wait. As she had expected, moments later a cab turned out of her and John's street and from the window of her own carriage she could see John's familiar figure within the confines, wrapped in his coat.

Her heart leapt in her chest. Not allowing herself to think for one moment, she roused the driver:

"Quickly! Follow him, and don't you dare lose sight of him!"

Mary felt frozen to her seat as the cab hurtled along the darkened streets. She kept her face close to the window, watching the cab a few metres in front of them, in which her unknowing husband now sat. Her heart was beating so hard in her chest that it was painful and she had broken out in a cold sweat all over her body. She was in terror. Terror of what she was about to discover.

The area did not look familiar. Everything looked different in the dark. The buildings loomed over her black and ominous, figures lurked just out of reach of the lamplight. There were a few other carriages on the road that the driver seemed to have to swerve often to avoid colliding with, though whose fault that was, Mary could not tell.

After it seemed they had been riding for at least twenty or even thirty minutes, the driver slowed down noticeably until they were almost coasting. Mary peered out of the window and saw that John's carriage had put some distance between itself and their carriage but had also slowed its speed. Mary realised that it was about to stop.

The driver called to her: "It's stopping up ahead, ma'am."

Mary hesitated. This was her chance. She could step down onto the dark footpath, follow her husband and discover his secret. She could also, easily, tell the driver to turn back and take her home. She could.

She twisted her hands in her lap. She didn't know what to do. She had come this far. Dare she go further? Did she dare venture deeper? She knew she had to. She couldn't go back now.

She stepped down onto the stones, shivering violently from fear and the cold. She looked up at the driver. "Please, sir, if you are kind enough to remain here until I return, I'll pay you whatever sum you wish."

The driver grunted, which she took to be acquiescence.

She tied her shawl tightly about her shoulders and walked on. John's carriage was only fifty metres or maybe less up the road. She could see her husband stepping down from the cab, speaking with the driver and adjusting his coat.

She paused, terrified that he would turn and see her. She looked about. The road was deserted. She glanced at the street sign. And then jerked. And did a double take.

_Baker Street._


	11. No Tears

Mary stared in disbelief at the street sign. _Baker Street_. She was in Baker Street. How had she not realised it sooner?

She felt a fool for not seeing it. She felt ridiculous tailing her husband in the dark, thinking he would lead her to some dark, dangerous secret and instead finding herself back at Holmes's doorstep. Her husband still felt drawn to his old home and his old partner. She couldn't help but feel vaguely guilty that she had driven him to such lengths to continue the work he obviously felt he needed to do.

Of course her husband would feel compelled to aid Sherlock Holmes still. He had helped him for so long, it was part of his nature to want to continue. Mary felt a little cheated and affronted that he had not told her the truth and had acted so deceivingly as to wait for her absence before returning to Baker Street, but she was relieved. She could not deny that.

Sighing, she loosened her grip on her shawl, watching as her husband stepped away from his cab and disappeared into Holmes's domain. The cab pulled away and disappeared into the darkness. She gazed after it. She wished she hadn't been so rash. She wished she had trusted her husband's integrity and honour. She wished she hadn't felt so jealous of his friendship with Holmes. After all, she couldn't expect to have John Watson entirely to herself. His friendship and partnership with Holmes was deeply important and precious to him. Her attempts to fence their life away from Holmes's erratic, peculiar dealings were fruitless; Holmes was too much a part of his life and his person.

With a sigh, she turned to go back to her cab, intending to go home and pretend that her 'second-cousin' had become ill overnight. She wouldn't even mention it. She would pretend that she had no idea of her husband's midnight escapade.

But then again...

She paused, glancing back at 221b. She was sure now that John's distance and his unhappiness had been a product of her disapproval of his friendship with Holmes. Perhaps if she made it clear that she accepted his need for Holmes in his life he would be himself again?

She hesitated, glancing from the waiting cab to 221b and back again. She could go up. She could surprise them. Tell them that she did not disapprove of their completing cases together, that they had her blessing to resume their partnership. John would be proud of her class and her maturity. He would return to her arms, enchanted by her act of selflessness and understanding. He would no longer feel he had to hide his true nature from her.

But, then again, that would require her having to admit that she had lied and that she had followed him. Would he be angry with her? Or would he understand her suspicion and her unease? She wasn't certain. Perhaps, he would simply be embarrassed that he hadn't told her of his involvement with Holmes.

She bit her lip, staring at 221b and clutching onto her shawl with one hand.

Then, quite suddenly, she made up her mind.

She began up the street, towards Holmes's domain. She would come clean. Even if John was cross with her he would soon calm down and see why she had acted thus.

She crossed the road, never taking her eyes off 221b.

She found that the door had been left unlocked, which was very unlike her meticulous husband but she thought nothing of it as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, glad for some shelter from the bitter early morning cold.

She went up to Holmes's rooms, listening intently for her husband's voice and rehearsing in her head what she would say when she came face to face with him. She would tell him the truth. She would tell him she understood. She would even tell Holmes that she understood that her husband needed his company. And then John would forgive her and they would be as they had been when they had courted.

She approached the door. It had been left very slightly ajar; there was a single slither of light cutting through the darkness in an eerie yellow slit. She went to walk straight in and then she faltered just as her hand was on the knob. She wondered if she ought to knock. After all, it was private property. She wouldn't have liked it if someone had walked into _her_ house without knocking, even if it was Holmes and even if he was likely to do just that.

She paused, catching her breath. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. She was still a little anxious of what she was about to do. Holmes always made her feel clumsy and unwanted. She felt silly bursting in on them. She hoped she could drag John away for a few moments to explain without having Holmes's sharp, knowing eyes watching her like some ill-tempered little animal.

But it was at that moment, as she pondered this that she suddenly heard something which made her heart stand still. She heard a shout from beyond the door. She couldn't tell if it had been John or Holmes but it certainly sounded as though they were in pain or in distress.

She felt a flutter of panic go through her. She hurried forward and, without thinking, pushed the door open, forgetting about knocking or announcing herself.

The door swung forward and Holmes's rooms appeared before her eyes.

And then her mind went blank. She physically could not move. She physically could not think. The shock was too great. The shock was almost painful. She had never set eyes on anything so utterly repulsive. Her limbs felt like they were paralysed.

The door had only opened halfway but she could see the room clearly, well lit by oil lamps and candles. Across in what she knew to be Holmes's claimed chair were two entangled bodies, moving roughly, desperately in sync with each other. For a few moments, her mind refused to put the pieces together. Her mind didn't want to recognise that flaxen hair, that slim figure, that tanned skin and broad shoulders. Her mind did not want to recognise what he was doing, half-dressed and moving so violently against Holmes, half obscured behind her husband's heaving mass.

He was crying out. He was cursing and moaning and saying Holmes's Christian name again and again and again until it had no meaning. Until it sounded like a foreign word. And he threw his head back. He threw his head back in total abandonment. In total bliss. The look of loss on his face, the look of utter completion was something new to her. She had never, ever seen it on her husband's face before. And that realisation brought a shard of agony into her being that shook her forcefully out of her state of shock.

She stumbled back, she closed the door. They had not seen her. They did not know she had seen them.

She turned and walked down the stairs, out of the front door, across the road and to her cab. She told the driver, in a voice which didn't sound like her own, to take her home.

She sat in the confines of the carriage, totally numb. Her breathing seemed laboured, as though her body had forgotten how to function.

The journey seemed to take a moment. She paid the driver everything she had on her person and then went up to her house and knocked on the door, hardly knowing what she was doing. Not even considering that someone wouldn't answer or what she would say about appearing on the doorstep at this hour of the morning.

The housekeeper was astonished to see her and in her deadened mind she was just aware of her concerned questions and offers to call for the doctor. She deflected them with a jerk of her head and went up to her own rooms.

She thought that perhaps she would cry as soon as she shut the door, but no tears came.

She began to undress, even though she didn't know where her nightgown was. She let her dress fall off of her, she didn't care how roughly she undid the stays. She tore the pins from her hair. She yanked off her underclothes and her shoes. She ripped her sleeves from her bodice and threw her skirts over her head. She pulled her petticoat off of her and flung it to the floorboards.

She stood in her corset, undoing the ribbons, struggling with them, not able to untie them. Finally, they gave. She undid them. She felt the tension loosening on her ribs. She felt her stomach beginning to release. Her breasts rose out of their tight stays.

It was then, as her body was finally removed from its restraints and the corset slid loosely down her hips, that she looked down at her stomach. And crumpled to her knees.


	12. Mysterious Stains

Holmes carried Watson to bed. Watson didn't know if he could stand up. His legs felt weak. His whole body felt weak. He was coated in sweat, he could feel it on his forehead, in his hair and especially between his legs. The inside of his thighs were rubbed raw and were slippery with sweat and semen.

Watson's bad leg was aching at the pressure he had unthinkingly put on it throughout his and Holmes's passionate display.

"Holmes..." He had said meekly, bringing them both out of their dazed afterglow. They were still wedged into the armchair. "My leg..."

Holmes jerked, staring down at Watson's bare legs, still pressed into his thighs. "I'll carry you." He said, without further explanation being needed.

Before Watson could protest, Holmes had scooped him up into his arms and the doctor found himself face to face with Holmes. His trousers and underclothes, which had been pooled about his ankles slid off completely and fell in a pile. Watson blushed at his vulnerable position, now completely half naked but Holmes did not seem to notice his discomfiture.

"I really should return home..." He said weakly, knowing it was true but glad for the argument Holmes would undoubtedly put up against it.

"Unless you plan to crawl home, I'd say you are very well trapped here for tonight." Holmes said firmly. Watson tried not to shiver at the authority in Holmes's voice. He was suddenly very aware of his bare chest and his nipples stinging slightly from the cold and from his recent deluge of passion. He pressed closer to Holmes to stop them from twinging.

He felt silly clutching onto Holmes so helplessly, but the detective did not quip. He held him tightly, one arm under his knees and the other clutching him possessively around the waist.

Holmes felt Watson nestle closer into his chest and looked down at the doctor's ruffled hair, resisting the urge to press his face into the thick tresses, knowing they would smell divinely of sex and Watson's own unique musk. That smell drove Holmes wild. It was a mixture of tobacco, soap, cologne, alcohol rub and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Holmes..." Watson murmured into Holmes, feeling drowsy and heavy headed.

"Hush," Holmes said softly.

He pushed open the door to his bedroom with little difficulty and took Watson to his bed, lying him down gently on the covers. He stood back, his eyes roaming over Watson's divinely bare figure. He had completely shed his trousers. His shirt was hanging loosely around his arms.

Holmes knelt by the bed and brushed his lips slowly down Watson's chest and stomach, relishing the sharp intake of breath from the doctor. Watson let out a small moan, he arched his back, his fingers curling and uncurling around the bed covers. "Ho-olmes." He stammered.

Holmes smiled. Watson was dazed from their violent lovemaking. He was very suggestible. Holmes quite liked having him at his mercy. He writhed slightly on his back as Holmes trailed his lips down to the sensitive area over Watson's pubis. Holmes gently nuzzled into the skin.

Watson bucked his hips. "Holmes..." He murmured.

Holmes moved back up to the head of the bed. He looked closely at Watson's features. He looked peaceful. He looked calm. Holmes brushed his hand slowly through the doctor's hair, finally daring to do what he had always wanted to. Watson did not swat his hand away as he had half expected, he blinked slowly, eyes heavy.

He wondered whether Watson was even still aware of what he was doing or where he was. Holmes watched Watson's chest rise and fall gently. His legs were slightly parted. Holmes helped himself to a good eyeful of his lover's endowments, feeling a faint ripple of desire pulse through him even when he his own privates were still sore from being thrust so violently in and out of Watson.

Watson mumbled something incoherent and moved his head slightly from side to side. His eyes closed. He seemed to be drifting.

Holmes couldn't help raising one eyebrow with a slight smirk. He wondered what the doctor might tell him if he coaxed him. After all, at present, Watson was _very_ suggestible.

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at Watson on his back. Watson slowly opened his eyes, blinking slowly at Holmes. He smiled sleepily.

"Watson..." Holmes began, smirking wider. "Did you enjoy that?"

"Mmm." Watson said vaguely, half-closing his eyes.

"Do you like it when I... take the lead?" Holmes said in a low voice, watching Watson's face closely.

"Yes." Watson mumbled. "I like it."

Holmes was delighted. He didn't know when, if ever, he'd have such a candid insight into Watson's usually very guarded thoughts so he pushed a little harder.

"Did you ever think about it before tonight?" Holmes said, putting a hand on either side of Watson on the bed and leaning over his figure. "Did you ever fantasise about us being together?"

Watson didn't reply. Holmes watched him, he seemed to be half asleep. Holmes bent down lower over him, drinking in every detail of his lover's face, unable to express the feelings which finally possessing Watson had sent bubbling and oozing through his entire form in warm, slow waves.

He thought that Watson had fallen asleep. With a resigned sigh, he went to move away.

"Mm." Watson said suddenly, in a very slight but clear assent.

Holmes looked back at him. His form prickled at this information. The thought of Watson fantasizing about being made love to, of Watson on his back whimpering and sighing and indulging himself sent a shiver of electricity up Holmes's spine.

He lowered his lips to Watson's ear. "Did you touch yourself, my dear Watson?" He had often thought about Watson, ever the neat, orderly army man, pleasuring himself. It seemed almost impossible to think that he would indulge in such earthly desires as masturbation but Holmes thought he would die of ecstasy if his fantasies came to life and Watson said he had played with himself.

"Holmes," Watson suddenly growled, opening his eyes and making Holmes jump. "I know what you're doing."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow, unflustered. "Whatever do you mean?" He said archly, his face very close to the doctor's.

Watson rolled his eyes and closed them again. "Let me sleep."

Holmes sighed in disappointment. He would have liked to hear Watson talk about his self-pleasuring exploits, however he was content with the fact that he had finally succeeded in bedded him. And done very, very well, he thought smugly, if he didn't say so himself. If Watson's impassioned cries had been anything to go by.

He gently kissed the doctor on the mouth. Watson's eyes flew open again but he did not push him away. Holmes gently plied open his lips, kissing him deeper but keeping his eyes firmly on Watson's. He felt like he could have drowned in them, happily, blissfully.

He had never felt anything close to what he felt for John Watson. He hadn't been _able_ to feel anything close to affection or regard for anyone before him. This feeling of utter need and tenderness for another human being almost frightened him with its control over his emotions. And Holmes rarely allowed himself to feel such an illogical sensation as fear, let alone the totally and utterly ridiculous sensation of _love_. It was all Watson's fault, he was sure.

He broke away from Watson's lips and lay down beside him. He lay there silently, listening to the doctor's breathing beside him. He closed his eyes, a heavy tiredness settling over him.

"Watson," He said at length.

"Mm." The doctor barely managed to mumble.

Holmes felt heavy and drowsy, pleasantly so. He hadn't felt so calm or so content for a very long time.

He exhaled heavily.

"I think I'm in love with you, Watson."

Watson was already asleep.

**oOo**

Watson awoke the next morning with Holmes in his arms, his head resting on his chest. Holmes was fast asleep. It was strange to see him looking so peaceful and still. He was almost childlike when he was asleep. Watson smiled, gently pushing a hand through Holmes's hair. The detective made a low mewing sound and rubbed his face deeper into Watson's chest.

Watson glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was already ten. He realised with a pang that Mary would be at home by that evening and he would have to return home. He tried to shoo the feelings of dread which were circling in his stomach.

It was not right that he should dread seeing his own wife but he was unable to resist the sensation.

He was beginning to realise that he was not in love with Mary. He wondered if he ever had been. He had felt smitten with her when he first met her. But perhaps he had been forcing himself to be in love. Perhaps he had felt that he no longer wanted to be Holmes's plaything, to be used and abused and tossed aside whenever he pleased. Now _he_ was in control. Holmes was the one who needed him. He tried not to feel satisfied with that state of affairs but he could not help it.

He moved out from under Holmes's warm weight, gently shifting him onto the covers. He sat up and found himself half-naked with his shirt twisted uncomfortably around his waist. He pulled it up around him and buttoned it. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately regretted it. His bad leg gave a painful twinge, and so did his arse. It stung and ached. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised after the abuse he had put it through the previous night.

He stood up and saw that there were blood spots on the bed covers. He gently rubbed himself and winced at the tenderness.

" _Ouch_. Bloody hell, Holmes. What have you done to me?" He hissed, hobbling out of the bedroom, trying not to put too much pressure on his legs or jolt his stinging entrance.

He found his trousers and underclothes in a pile by the armchair they'd used the night before. The seat was soaked in blood. Watson cringed. What would they tell Mrs. Hudson? He supposed Holmes would think of something. He always managed to think of some excuse for the singe marks on the floorboards, the holes in the walls, the tears in the curtains, the mysterious stains on the bed sheets...

Watson plucked his underclothes from the floor and pulled them on but the seat of his trousers was covered in blood and he could not return home with them in such a state. He would ask Holmes for a spare pair.

"Already ten o'clock." He mumbled to himself, suppressing a yawn. "I'd best wake Holmes. He might have business to attend to." He felt a slight pang. He remembered the days when he would have accompanied Holmes on such business. Nowadays he spent his time discussing the most flattering shade of wallpaper for a room, where he and Mary would go on holiday (Bath or Cornwall?) and always, always, _always_ children. Children seemed to occupy his wife's thoughts day and night, night and day. He was beginning to despise the unconceived spawn which dominated his life already.

He went to wake Holmes. He stared at Holmes's still form, resisting the urge to run his hands all over the detective's taut, muscular figure.

Instead, he went around to his side of the bed and put his mouth close to Holmes's ear. "Holmes." He said softly. "Holmes, wake up."

He shook him gently. The detective's eyes flickered open. He stared up at Watson, blinking the daylight out of his eyes and rubbing at his face like a child. "Wa-Watson?" He stuttered though a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Ten-fifteen," Watson said, straightening up and going across to the chest of drawers. "You don't happen to have a pair of trousers I might borrow? Mine are a little... dirtied."

Holmes sat up and rubbed at his eyes again. He followed Watson with his eyes. Watson looked delicious. Dishevelled and ruffled, his hair stuck up all over the place, his shirt was wrinkled and his legs were bare. He was so drenched in sex that it was all Holmes could do not to take Watson again where he stood. His flaccid cock gave a twinge at the idea but he scolded himself for having such unchaste thoughts first thing in the morning.

"Why, Watson," He couldn't help saying. "You look as though you've been lost in the woods for a week."

Watson raised an unamused eyebrow at him. "Thank you so much." He said flatly. "A fine compliment to receive at this time of the morning."

"On the contrary, I think the look rather suits you." Holmes said silkily. "You look as though you finally removed that pole which has been residing up your arse since we first met."

Watson spluttered. "Holmes!"

"Why, Watson." Holmes said fondly. "Still so bashful? Even after you so nicely begged me to... what was it? _Sodomize_ you last night?"

"Just tell me where the bloody trousers are." Watson snapped, irritably opening every drawer as roughly as possible to hide his embarrassment.

Holmes smirked but took pity on his blushing lover. "In the bottom drawer, dear Watson."

Watson found a pair and pulled them on. Holmes watched him from the bed, looking thoughtful. "Will you be going home immediately?"

Watson glanced at him. "I really think I must, Holmes. Mary will be back this evening and I'll need to prepare everything for her return."

Holmes tried not to feel disappointed, but losing Watson so soon after they had made love was a sore blow. "Of course." He said mildly, hoping Watson wouldn't be able to sense the immense displeasure in his voice. "Your wife."

Watson turned abruptly to him. Despite Holmes's upmost efforts to avoid badmouthing Watson's marriage, he always seemed to spur the doctor into an angry defence. "Do you think I want to leave you?" He demanded.

Holmes shrugged, deciding that if Watson wanted an argument, he would give him one. "You like being able to come and go as you please."

"Nonsense!" Watson snapped, though he knew it was true.

"Absolutely!" Holmes cried, sitting up straight and staring hard at Watson. "You _love_ being able to flit between your comfortable little domestic sphere and the filthy den of your depraved lover."

Watson gave a derisive shout of laughter. "Really, Holmes. You are so dramatic. "Depraved lover" indeed." He shook his head. "Well, actually, you're quite right. You _are_ depraved and this den of yours is utterly filthy but that is not why I return."

"Why do you return?" Holmes asked, narrowing his eyes.

Watson faltered, realising he had been cornered. "I return because..."

"Why do you return?" Holmes repeated, his eyes blazing.

Watson could have told Holmes the truth but what good would it have done? It would have ended up hurting Holmes even more in the end. No good would come of it at all. "Look, Holmes. I don't have time for this. I have to go home. _You_ have to get up."

"Why?" Holmes snapped, sinking back down into his pillows. "I have nowhere to go and no one to see. No case worthy of my notice. No friends worthy of my attentions." The last words were so pointed, Watson almost flinched.

For a few moments, both were silent. Holmes stared straight ahead, his face hard with anger and hurt. Watson stood by the drawers in the slightly-too-big trousers, watching Holmes and feeling the guilt pump through his veins like poison.

"I'm leaving." Watson said bluntly. "I'll speak to you later."

He left Holmes where he was and walked through the front room, plucking his trousers from the floor and his fallen coat and hat on his way to the door. He walked slowly, his whole body was aching, he leant heavily on his cane and tried to ignore the throbbing ache of his broken entrance as he hobbled about.

He pulled his coat on, pressed his hat onto his head and left, wondering how many times he would walk out on Holmes like a coward before he was man enough to admit what was in his heart.


	13. The Present

Watson arrived home shortly after eleven, after making an impromptu visit to a coffee house to drown his sorrows. He knew he should have been still alight from the previous night's events but he felt flat. He felt guiltier and more torn than ever.

_And so you should_ , said a curt voice in his head. He told the voice to shut up. After all, _they_ were not the one that had to balance a double life. A wife who he didn't now want and a lover who he was in lo- very, very _fond_ of and yet could not be with. There were thousands of reasons why he and Holmes could not be together. At the top of the list was that it was illegal. Below that was his marriage. It was utterly impossible, and Watson felt the pain of that impossibility every day. Holmes didn't realise how keenly Watson felt the weight of knowing he was hurting him. How could Holmes understand? Watson had never told him. And he couldn't ever imagine himself doing so. The process of being humbled before another man, of putting his heart on his sleeve despite the risk of being hurt was too much. He couldn't do it. He couldn't give all and lose all. Not even for Holmes.

He stumbled up the stairs, ignoring the curious looks of the servants and went straight to his bedroom, wanting to change into a decent pair of trousers at the very least before he had breakfast.

The room was pitch black. Someone had pulled the curtains. Cursing as he tripped over something in the middle of the floor, he stumbled to the window.

"Why the devil have these been closed?" He snarled to himself, yanking one back.

He turned and stopped dead. There was someone asleep in the bed, their slim figure faced away from him under the covers, their breathing steady and deep. He hadn't disturbed them.

He stared. He would have recognised the flood of blonde hair anywhere.

He stood frozen for a few moments, gazing at her and feeling blank with confusion. Then he quickly shut the curtain again and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. He had had no idea she would be returning so early otherwise he would have returned much earlier himself.

What would he tell her? He would have to cook something up. Some lie. A patient. A meeting. An important dinner with some important businessman. He felt a little uneasy. What had the servants said to her of his absence? Had he remembered to clean all of his... mess off the bed? What had she thought when she'd arrived home and he'd been gone?

He went downstairs to speak to the housekeeper. She told him nothing. Just that Mrs. Watson had arrived home earlier than expected and had gone straight to bed. In fact, she seemed a little suspicious of him and Watson retreated to his study, feeling beaten down.

He would stay in his study until Mary awoke.

He took the time to gingerly feel his used entrance and see what damage Holmes had done to him. It had stopped bleeding so he took that as a good sign but it still throbbed as he walked and he had to lean more heavily on his cane than usual to support himself.

He hoped Mary didn't notice his bandy-legged hobble when she saw him.

**oOo**

Holmes managed to stumble out of bed at midday feeling dirty and unwashed again. His rooms were still in disarray but he no longer could bring himself to care. He went to the armchair that he and Watson had made love in and stared at the patch of blood Watson had left behind. He resisted the urge to touch it.

He wondered how much scrubbing and washing it would take to remove it. Mrs Beeton would surely have had some suggestions for its removal. He would have to tell Mrs Hudson eventually... but until then, he concealed it with a cushion and reminded himself not to use it in the near future.

He went instead to the chair that had once been Watson's and fell heavily into it, staring dully at the chair opposite.

He slumped down dejectedly. "Bastard." He mumbled, picking at his trouser pocket. "What's wrong with me?"

Holmes just wanted the heartache to go away. It throbbed so continuously, so relentlessly, it was like a wound beneath the skin. Why had he trusted Watson? He had always been cleverer than that. He hadn't ever let himself be used like this. Why had he thought Watson would be any different from everyone else who used and took what they wanted and gave nothing back? He couldn't quite believe that Watson had left him. He had thought that Watson's agreeing to reverse their roles in the relationship would... what? Make him leave Mary? Make him divorce her and come and be with Holmes? Had he really, truly believed that? He felt ashamed that he had let himself believe such a fantasy. And wounded himself in the process.

He sighed miserably and slipped out of the chair. If Watson wasn't going to give him what he wanted, he wasn't going to give Watson what he wanted.

He went to the bathroom. The cupboard in the bathroom to be more precise. When he had cleansed his rooms of his cocaine, his morphine, his small amount of heroine, he hadn't cleansed _all_ of it. He had left a small amount of cocaine for safety. He hadn't ever meant to use it. He hadn't ever wanted to use it. But he needed it.

The leather case was hidden behind the various bottles and lotions. He took it down and opened it. His syringe was still where he had left it.

"My old friend," He murmured, stroking a finger along it.

What would Watson say if he could see him? Holmes frowned. He thought the guilt he felt might kill him. He could feel a burning sickness in his stomach. He didn't want to betray Watson's trust. He truly didn't.

He stared hard at the needle. Then he set his jaw. Watson wasn't here now. Watson didn't have supreme control over everything Holmes did, Holmes had every right to do as he pleased.

But he still didn't move, he stared at the case and then at the small bottle of cocaine he had salvaged. He wanted it. God knew he did, but why couldn't he shake the feeling that he was doing something unforgivable? It had never affected him in the past. He had injected it while Watson had watched on, scowling and grumbling but now, free and alone as he had always thought he had wanted to be, the thought of injecting it and sitting alone in his rooms was a desperately miserable picture.

With a heavy sigh, he put the leather case back into the cupboard. He would not lower himself to Watson's level. He would not give the doctor an excuse to look down on him for his vice.

He left the bathroom and went back to Watson's chair. He curled into it, pulling his knees to his chin. He had taught himself to need, to desire solitude. But at present, he felt very alone indeed and it hurt.

**oOo**

"Darling,"

Watson stood up as his wife entered the room. She looked very tired, there were dark shadows under her eyes and her clothes seemed to be hanging looser on her already slight frame than what he remembered.

He went to her and kissed her on the cheek. She seemed to almost flinch as he touched her but a moment later he thought he must have imagined it, she was smiling at him.

"How was your journey?" He asked her.

"Very enjoyable." She said in a thin voice.

"Whatever is the matter?" Watson asked her. "You don't look at all well. You didn't catch something did you?"

Her smile did not shift but to Watson it seemed almost like a grimace, like two hooks were lifting the corners of her mouth and forcing her lips into something resembling a smile but not quite managing it. Her eyes were cold and dark. Watson had known her for long enough to know she was not well, but she waved a hand dismissively at him. "I'm perfectly well." She said airily, walking past him to the far window and pushing it open. "This room needs some air."

Watson watched her. She was avoiding his eye. His years with Holmes had not been completely ineffective. "At least let me take your temperature." He said.

Mary turned to him with an airy laugh. "There's no need. I'm fine. I'm not ill at all. Just tired."

She still had not asked him where he had been all night. Watson was certain that she was not fine. He went to her and tried to put a hand to her forehead to see if she was warm but to his surprise she slapped his hand away. A strange, wild look came rapidly across her features and she abruptly stepped back from him. "I'm fine, John." She snapped at him. "Please just stop mollycoddling me, for God's sake."

With that she pushed past him and went out the door.

Watson stared after her, bemused. He followed her out, wondering whether she had had some sort of argument with her cousin... aunt... relative...

"Mary," He said loudly to her retreating back in the corridor. "What on earth is the matter with you?"

She stopped dead in her tracks but did not turn around. He could see that she was breathing heavily and he felt surer than ever that she was ill, but if she was determined to rebuff him he would say no more of it.

She slowly turned to him. Her irritation seemed to have passed. She shook her head with a little, tinkling laugh. "I'm sorry, John. I'm just tired. I shouldn't have snapped. Do forgive me."

"Of course." Watson said slowly, studying her face. "Would you like to take tea? I'm free until this afternoon."

"Of course." She said lightly, letting him come and take her arm and lead her downstairs.

They had tea in the parlour; Watson avoided the question that he knew was coming. He asked about her relative's health, of her journey, of the traffic, the weather, the food. Mary seemed to become gradually more impatient with him at every question and began to answer him in short, irate phrases until Watson was forced to lapse into silence, his conversation quite exhausted.

"John," She said, when the silence had lingered for three or four agonizing minutes.

Watson looked up over his teacup. "Yes, Mary." He said nonchalantly.

"Where were you all last night?" She asked him in a perfectly calm voice, her eyes not wavering on his.

Watson glanced down at the tea tray and up again at his wife's cool blue eyes. "A patient in Spitalfields fell quite ill and I was called to the house. I sat with her all night. She was really in rather bad shape, I wasn't able to come away until early this morning."

Mary watched him for a moment in silence, her stare penetrating, almost painful on him. "Oh," She said at length, looking away carelessly to add more milk to her cup. "I hope she is no worse."

"No, she will live." Watson said quietly.

Silence fell on them again. Watson drank his tea with difficulty. He couldn't account for the uncomfortable knot in his stomach or the way his heart seemed to beat uneasily in his chest but something about his wife's erratic mood change and her cold eyes said plainly that she did not believe him.

Watson swallowed the bland, watery liquid with a slight shudder and put down his cup.

"I'm ovulating." His wife suddenly announced.

Watson jerked. He felt himself go hot around the cheeks and cursed himself for his own bashfulness. "Indeed?" He said awkwardly.

His wife stirred her tea calmly and tapped the edge of the cup with her spoon, before bringing it to her lips again. Watson watched as she took a sip and placed it back on its saucer.

"Darling, don't look so worried. I am not so very hopeful after all these weeks. I have no preconceptions that tonight will be any different to any night since we wed."

Watson flushed. "Pardon?"

"You needn't concern yourself. After all, women hardly care about personal gain during such activities." She went on as though he had not spoken, taking another sip of her tea. "It's procreation. My expectations are not high of you or your abilities."

Watson felt the smart but did not attempt to defend himself. She was irate. He did not know why, but he did not want to anger her further. He was not in a position to disrupt the peace.

**oOo**

Watson went about his day as usual but with the knowledge niggling in the back of his mind that that evening he would have to lay with his wife. He was beginning to wholly dread sleeping with her. He didn't enjoy it. He could hardly bring himself to climax even when he conjured up the most depraved images of Holmes in his mind's eye. He couldn't even make himself hard some nights. He wasn't surprised that Mary was disappointed in his performance. The fact that he could not conjure an attraction to her no matter how he strained and forced himself made the process painful and laborious. He could give her nothing.

He dressed in his nightshirt and went to their bedroom, she was already sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightdress. Her hair was loose. She looked up when he entered but did not smile at him as she had once done.

He sighed inwardly and went to his side of the bed.

Mary slid under the covers and Watson did the same. They lay still, side by side. Not speaking or moving.

There was almost perfect silence around them, except for the rain silently falling outside and the soft footsteps of the servants below.

"John," Mary said finally.

Watson looked at her, hoping desperately that she would tell him she was too tired to make love tonight.

"I'm ready," She said calmly.

Watson's heart sunk. He moved heavily under the covers, manoeuvring himself over her slim, feminine figure. He felt vaguely ill. Mary's gentle prettiness, her soft female form did not arouse him. His body ached and yearned for the hard, sharp, masculine shape of Holmes's body. His hard stomach, his broad shoulders, his strong chest and features. Watson felt dizzy just thinking of Holmes and then he realised he was above his wife and the temporary buzz of pleasure that had pooled in his crotch dispersed rapidly.

He was glad that the room was dimly lit. It cast a shadow over half of Mary's face and he couldn't see her expression properly as he handled himself, trying to rub himself to go hard, feeling himself grow hot with shame at his inability.

He put his mouth gently on hers and felt her flinch against him.

"Oh, please. Oh, please just get off me." She burst out suddenly with a small moan, placing her hands on his chest and pushing him bodily away. Watson fell back to his side of the bed, staring bewilderedly at her.

Mary threw the blankets off and fell out of the bed, moving away to the wall, her arms wrapped around herself.

"Mary?" Watson said hesitantly, stepping down onto the cold floorboards, his eyes not moving from his wife. "What is the matter?"

"I disgust you." She said with a small sob, not turning to him. Watson felt a painful throb in his chest but he didn't move. He couldn't. He felt frozen where he stood. "You can't even touch me."

"Mary," Watson said hollowly. "I love you."

Mary whirled towards him, the shadow moved across her face, he saw the flash of anger and pain in her features. She opened her mouth furiously. But then she froze and slowly closed it again.

There was silence. Watson stood stiffly beside the bed, gazing at Mary opposite him. She looked small and vulnerable in her nightdress, alone against the wall. He felt the weight of his own inadequacy.

"I feel ill," She said at length in a thin, quiet voice. "I'm going to go to the kitchens and have the cook make me something-

Watson jerked forward. "I can-

"No." She said sharply, Watson stopped short. "John, just stay here. Please."

She left him. Watson stared after her, angry and stung and furious at himself.

He gripped his fists with a snarl. "Pathetic." He growled at himself, pushing his hair back forcefully from his damp forehead. "Pathetic excuse for a human being."

He tore off his nightshirt and pulled on his underclothes, some trousers and a shirt. Then he went downstairs and paused only to don his coat and hat before diving back out into the night.

**oOo**

Watson reached Baker Street in a blur. He couldn't have told if it had taken five minutes or five hours. His head was a mess of emotions. He couldn't shake Mary's hurt, resentful eyes from his mind.

He found Holmes's door unlocked and let himself in, taking off his hat and coat and throwing them wherever they might fall. He closed the door behind him.

Holmes appeared at the door of his bedroom looking delectably dishevelled as though he had just woken up. His eyes were wide, evidently he had originally thought Watson was the worst housebreaker in London because his features relaxed slightly when he saw Watson's familiar figure.

Watson didn't say anything, he strode towards the detective who stared blankly at him. "Watson, what are- Ah!"

Holmes found himself against the wall. He stared in alarm as Watson rolled his hips forward, pinning him firmly where he stood. Watson cupped a hand under the shorter man's chin and pushed his mouth roughly against Holmes's soft, fascinating mouth.

"Watson-mmhfp..." Holmes said weakly as his lips were engulfed. He could feel Watson's prick already hardening against the inside of his thigh. His eyes widened. He pressed his hands into Watson's chest, wanting to push him off but feeling too dazed to attempt more than a half-hearted nudge.

He couldn't think. Arousal was pulsing intensely through his veins. Watson pressed his lips open, his tongue forcing its way into the moist interior. Holmes gripped onto Watson's shirt to steady himself as Watson ran his tongue purposefully along the inside of his bottom lip and sent him almost giddy with pleasure.

He mumbled something incomprehensible into the kiss, hardly knowing what he was doing. He was hazy with drowsiness and desire. He really shouldn't have drunk anything before he went to bed, it had sapped him of his ability to say no.

He definitely was in no position to say no now. Watson left his mouth and moved his lips to Holmes's neck, Holmes threw his head back at Watson's unspoken command and felt his knees buckle beneath him as Watson ran his tongue slowly, agonizingly down Holmes's neck to the tip of his collar bone. He was definitely in no position to say no. Not when his body was screaming 'yes, yes, _yes_ ' over and over in his head in a deafening repetition.

"Uhh, Watson..." He moaned weakly.

Watson looked at Holmes, he was drenched in desire, his eyes were begging Watson to take him. He could feel his cock throbbing against the refines of his trousers, desperate for contact inside of Holmes.

Watson half carried, half dragged Holmes to the bed. Then he threw him quite bodily onto it and went about removing the detective's clothes at a lightning pace. Holmes did nothing but whimper and protest half-heartedly as Watson loosened his trousers and pulled them down his delicious thighs and then removed his shirt completely, leaving Holmes quite vulnerable on his back.

Watson thought that the very sight of Holmes naked and so divine would send him insane. Holmes's cock was perfect. It was now full and hard, begging for attention. Begging for Watson to take it in hand.

Watson took his time in undressing himself. Holmes writhed on his back, moaning and begging. His arousal growing with every moment of delay. Watson couldn't help smirking to himself that Holmes, who had been so eager to take a commanding role, fell so easily back into the submissive position after just a few careful touches.

Watson finally let his trousers and shirt drop to the floor and crawled onto the bed. He knelt on all fours over Holmes, gazing at Holmes's helpless expression. Holmes put a hand to his cheek and kissed him hungrily, desperately, his hands roaming over Watson's body, trembling and clumsy with arousal.

"Watson..." He whimpered. "Watson, take me. Take me please."

Watson smiled into Holmes's lips. "Patience. You will have to work for it."

Holmes arched his back with a groan. Watson moved down to Holmes's crotch. He ran his tongue up the shaft and savoured the sharp intake of breath, the way Holmes's body stiffened and relaxed rapidly against the bed. Watson grasped Holmes's hips and forcefully manoeuvred him so his legs were apart and his crotch, his tight entrance were fully accessible to Watson.

Watson looked up at Holmes. Holmes had a look of fearful apprehension on his face mingled with intense need. Watson cocked an eyebrow. "If you come, I'll stop and you'll have nothing else from me tonight."

Holmes could do nothing but whimper.

Watson turned his attention back to Holmes's manhood. He teased it with his fingers, gently running them up and down the length, not at all tightly enough to satisfy Holmes but enough to make him desperately horny. While he gently massaged the aroused flesh, he put his lips to the tip and tended to it with his mouth, only teasing him, never taking him wholly in his mouth.

"Oh, Wat- I can't... _oh_!" Holmes looked completely lost in the pleasure, beads of sweat had appeared on his brow, on his arms, on his chest. He was moving his hips slightly up and down in a fruitless attempt to gain release through Watson's calculatedly slight touches.

"Do you like that?" Watson said in a low voice, his hand still moving up and down Holmes's length in steady, measured movements but with barely any pressure on the bulging appendage.

Holmes could not reply, he was staring up at the ceiling with a wild look in his eyes, he was clawing at the covers as though he might fall if he loosened his grip.

Watson smirked and rubbed a little harder, taking Holmes a little deeper in his mouth. Holmes rocked his hips upwards, trying to fuck Watson's hand, trying to create enough friction to release some of the tension but not succeeding, as Watson had intended.

"Hmm now, now. Patience." Watson said mildly, releasing Holmes from his mouth and wetting two fingers in his mouth.

He made a show of sliding them damply, slowly down Holmes's straining shaft to the hot, sensitive area begging for attention below. He buried his fingers inside and listened with relish to Holmes's cry of ecstasy. His whole form convulsed and he thrust violently into Watson's hand, losing complete control of himself for a moment.

"Remember now, Holmes." Watson said to the shivering detective, looking up at him with desperate dark eyes. "If you climax, you'll have to be satisfied with fucking my fingers. You'll have nothing else from me tonight."

Holmes nodded with a miserable whine, bucking his hips upward again as Watson began to rub with renewed vigour, licking away the dampness which had formed on the head. He dug his fingers deeper into Holmes's tightness, feeling his own cock give a hard pulse at the strangled choke Holmes emitted as he was trespassed upon in such a manner.

Watson lowered his hands on Holmes's prick and moved his mouth further down onto it, relishing the feel of Holmes's stiff arousal in his mouth. He could hear the detective's breathing becoming more and more rapid and uncontrolled. He was bucking harder and harder against Watson's mouth, impaling himself further onto his fingers and crying out as he did. Watson wanted to draw him as close to his climax as possible before releasing him. He could have made Holmes climax quite spectacularly if he had chosen to at that very moment, he knew very well that Holmes did not have the experience or the control yet to resist but Watson didn't want him to come just yet.

He waited until Holmes was at his wit's end. Until Holmes was practically thrashing with helpless passion and pumping himself again and again onto Watson's fingers in uncontrolled desperation, and then he abruptly withdrew them and released Holmes's prick from his mouth with a damp popping sound of suction.

Holmes cried out in utter despair. "Watson! P-please." He whimpered. "I can't... I need..."

Watson crawled back to his position over his lover, staring down at Holmes's face with feverish longing. He didn't say anything, he pushed Holmes's legs roughly up and apart until his knees were level with Watson's arm pits. Watson could feel Holmes's cock pressed slightly painfully into his stomach.

"Please, Watson!" Holmes cried out, throwing a hand into Watson's hair and holding him tightly but not painfully as he stared up in dazed anticipation. " _Please_."

Watson could no longer control himself. He pushed himself hard into Holmes's entrance and heard a taut moan escape his lips as his sex was buried in the detective's hot, tight flesh. Holmes arched up and threw his head back, a silent scream of passion on his face.

Watson rocked himself hard into Holmes, heat pumping through his veins and limbs. Holmes seemed to be unable to speak. His hand was still caught in Watson's hair, his nails were digging slightly painfully into Watson's flesh. Watson drank in Holmes's features, his look of intense pleasure, almost bordering on agony it was so taut and his eyes fluttering wildly as though he was almost losing consciousness where he lay. He gripped Watson harder, pulling him closer so that their lips were almost touching.

Watson panted as he thrust in and out of Holmes. He couldn't think of anything but how good- no 'good' was far too inadequate a word... how _blissful_ , how _divine_ it felt to move inside of Holmes that evening. His pleasure dazed mind was drunk on Holmes. He dug his toes hard into the mattress of the bed and rocked himself harder into Holmes, desperately seeking the climax that was building. Holmes seemed even closer, he seemed to have crossed the line where he even knew where he was or who he was with. He seemed quite delirious with pleasure.

"Wa-Wat- Ahh- _Uh. Gods_." He garbled, his fingers curling into the bed covers. "Wat-Watson... I-I'm-Oh!"

Watson knew that Holmes was close to coming, he was surprised that he had lasted this long. He began to drive almost violently into Holmes, hissing as his cock gave an ache of impending release.

He looked into Holmes's eyes, cloudy with the weight of the incomprehensible sensation and relished the feeling of being able to see the ecstasy overtake Holmes completely as they reached their climax.

They came in almost perfect unison, he watched as Holmes lost control of himself. He saw the expression of agony grip Holmes's features, knowing he was experiencing his release, knowing that he was unreachable at that moment of rapture. At the sight of his lover's bliss, Watson felt himself come, it rushed forward in hot, thick waves into his friend.

Holmes cried out but Watson managed to bite back the howl of completion that rose up in him like lava. He thrust once more into Holmes and collapsed flat onto Holmes's chest.

The two damp, hot, sticky bodies remained as they were for minutes after, as they tried to comprehend the sensations they had just experienced.

Holmes's legs were still thrown either side of Watson, his knees aching at the pressure of being bent in midair. In fact a lot of Holmes's body parts ached but he was too bewildered to take full notice of it as of yet.

Watson pulled himself out and rolled onto his back beside Holmes, staring up the ceiling and breathing like he'd just swam the channel. Holmes lowered his legs and lay still, his own breathing not any less wild. Both men couldn't seem to bring themselves to speak. They didn't want to ruin the perfection of their twin orgasms. And they were almost too exhausted to even think, let alone form words.

Holmes was the first to recover enough to squirm his way over to his bed mate and nestle up against him. Watson put his arms around Holmes and held him tight to him. They didn't speak. For once, Watson wasn't thinking of the future or even the past, he was just enjoying the present and the feeling of having the man he adored in his arms.


	14. Holmes' Hygiene

When Mary returned to the bedroom some time after midnight she found the room deserted. And she knew immediately where her husband had gone.

**oOo**

"Holmes, your lack of personal hygiene is a disgrace." Watson said flatly, watching Holmes don the same stained, creased, unwashed shirt and trousers he'd been wearing the night before.

Holmes ignored him, pushing a handful of stringy, greasy hair from his unshaven face and not bothering to do his shirt buttons up.

"Don't you think it's time you went out and got some fresh air?" Watson asked him pointedly, shifting his cane from one hand to the other as he sat in his old chair, watching as Holmes struggled with his shirt cuffs. "It's really a very nice day. You need some sunlight... and socialization."

Holmes turned to him, one eyebrow raised disdainfully. "Sunlight and fresh air? How very quaint you are, Watson. But I really have far too much to do to go ambling aimlessly about London."

"Such as?" Watson prompted him bluntly.

Holmes blinked. "Such as?"

"Such as..." Watson repeated dryly. "What?"

"Such as..." Holmes gestured vaguely. "Things."

He turned away with a flustered sniff. "I don't have to explain everything I do to you."

"You haven't taken on a case since..." Watson cleared his throat. "My departure. I'm beginning to wonder how you're actually managing to sustain yourself. Your income was never extensive at the best of times."

"You needn't worry yourself." Holmes said scornfully. "I am a grown man, not a school boy. I am not in need of petting and preening."

Privately, Watson thought that was _precisely_ what Holmes needed but he did not say it. "Why don't you come for a walk with me today? We can get something to eat. You haven't been eating properly. I asked Mrs Hudson."

"Really." Holmes prickled. "Checking up on me? Have you no respect for me at all? And you trust Mrs Hudson's information? She wouldn't know the time of the day if she didn't have that hideous cuckoo clock to scream it at her twelve times a day."

"I know you think yourself very independent and self-sufficient," Watson said coolly. "But if you don't eat, you will make yourself ill."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Independent? Self-sufficient?" He gave a low, humourless laugh. "How apt you are at twisting the mechanics of a situation to make it seem as though _I_ were the one who ejected you from the household against your will. I did not _choose_ independence and self-sufficiency, it chose me."

Watson stared at his cane, avoiding Holmes's gaze. "Be that as it may. You still have to eat occasionally, bathe from time to time and even leave the house now and then. These are the three criteria of a functioning human being and at present you fail on all counts."

Holmes sighed affectedly and fell into his chair opposite. Then he abruptly jumped up as though someone had jabbed a fork in his behind. "Uh!" The seat was still stained with Watson's blood. He scratched his head sheepishly, peering at it. "Oh. Forgot about that."

Watson stared at it, a look of revulsion on his face. "Oh, Holmes. Please tell me that isn't from when we..."

Holmes glared at him defensively. "You left it there."

"It's _your_ house!" Watson burst out, outraged. "How can you _live_ like this?"

Holmes suddenly rounded on him. "It is no longer your concern." He snapped, a flush of irritation marring his features.

Watson blinked at him, taken aback.

Holmes looked slightly taken aback himself. He frowned and ran a hand through his filthy hair with a sigh. "I meant to clean it, I really did but I entirely forgot."

"Oh, Holmes." Watson said tiredly, rubbing his forehead as though he had a pounding headache. "I'm really not trying to be intrusive. I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need your help." Holmes said quietly and unconvincingly.

"Well, will you at least let me tidy you up? Just to appease myself?" Watson said gently, knowing that Holmes would be more likely to allow it if he thought it was not his accepting help but rather just Watson being a fusspot.

Holmes hesitated, glancing around the dishevelled surroundings and then at his own bedraggled person. "Oh, alright." He said long-sufferingly.

Watson resisted the urge to smile, he just nodded solemnly.

**oOo**

" _Ouch_. You put soap in my _eye_."

Watson gritted his teeth and silently asked God to give him strength as he gently wiped the offending suds from the detective's eye and returned to scrubbing his hair. "For a man who does so little, you seem to be able to get an incredible amount of dirt in your hair." He remarked coolly.

Holmes did not reply. He was sulking, staring stonily ahead with his arms folded across his chest.

He was waist deep in warm, soapy water in an old fashioned hipbath Watson had transported to the middle of the bedroom floor. Watson had patiently warmed and filled the water to the precise temperature Holmes had demanded and had even managed to find an ancient bar of soap in a dish by the sink.

Holmes had then icily instructed him to avert his eyes while he undressed. Watson had been about to protest but he guessed that was exactly what Holmes wanted him to do, so he set his jaw and turned away, trying to ignore the little grunts Holmes made as he removed his clothes and dropped them into a pile on the floor.

Once Holmes had been hidden up to the ribs in the water, Watson had dared to kneel beside him and inspect the damage Holmes's apparent aversion to bathing had caused. He found that the detective's person would not be so very filthy had he not had such a large amount of soot, dirt and plant matter in his hair.

It seemed that the harder he scrubbed, the more Holmes's hair moulded into a giant, thick, sodden matt which refused to be untangled no matter how roughly he tugged at it.

To his credit, Holmes bore the discomfort very well besides much tutting and muttering and cursing under his breath, and occasional remarks on Watson's total inability to do anything right.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have the hands of a pubescent chimpanzee?" He said pleasantly as Watson took to his hair with a comb.

Watson jerked the comb unnecessarily hard through a tangle in Holmes hair. Holmes let out a cry of pain.

"So sorry." Watson said blandly. "Excuse my chimpanzee hands."

Holmes grumbled and slid deeper into the water.

Watson rolled his eyes and went back to tugging the comb fruitlessly through Holmes's hair. "I can't believe how dirty your hair is." He said through gritted teeth. "It's repulsive."

"C'est la vie." Holmes said sulkily.

Watson rolled his eyes. He moved his hand temporarily from Holmes's hair to the soft, smooth skin now hidden largely by the stubble he hadn't attended to in weeks.

Holmes impatiently swatted his hand away.

"You need to shave." Watson said archly.

"I'm growing a beard." Holmes replied with a sniff.

Watson raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Men with facial hair have to take care of it. You can't even manage to bathe regularly."

" _You_ just like being the only one in the relationship to have facial hair because it makes you feel dominant." Holmes said accusingly. "You think it gives you authority over me."

"Oh, nonsense." Watson said irritably, filling a cup with some of the soapy water.

"You've always thought that having a moustache gives you leave to rule over me and boss me about and treat me like an adolescent." Holmes went on, enjoying the splotchy red flush that was creeping across Watson's face as he attempted to swallow his irritation. "You need dominance, it makes you feel like a man." He hissed provocatively to great effect. Watson's eyes flashed dangerously and his grip on the cup became visibly tighter.

"Perhaps I treat you like an adolescent because you bloody well _act_ like one." Watson growled, narrowing his eyes.

"It's no good substituting me for your quiet, biddable wife." Holmes went on happily, taking his usual enjoyment in infuriating Watson into a rage. He paused. "Especially not now you've shown me how much pleasure you take in being fucked like a wh-

"Shut up." Watson snapped, dunking the cup of water over Holmes's soap covered head.

Holmes spluttered, spitting out a mouthful of water into the tub and blinking at Watson with a wounded look. "You bully."

"You idiot." Watson retorted, slamming the cup down beside him with unnecessary force. It bounced off the floorboards and skittered against the wall.

"Do be careful." Holmes remarked, pulling the curtain of sodden hair back from his eyes. "I can't have you breaking Mrs Hudson's tableware."

Watson opened his mouth furiously. "I-

He broke off. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, restraining the urge to dunk Holmes's head under the water. "There is no argument in the matter, Holmes. You need a shave. I am willing to give you a shave. There is absolutely no argument to be had. I am shaving you. End of story."

Holmes opened his mouth to argue but Watson spoke loudly over the top of him. "And if you insist on being difficult, I shall tell Mrs Hudson what you did to her border flowers."

Holmes froze and closed his mouth. He muttered something under his breath but did not argue further.

Watson finished Holmes's hair and turned his attention to the rest of Holmes's unwashed body. He held the soap in one hand and rested the other on his knee, hesitating.

Holmes glanced at him, immediately noticing his hesitation.

"Watson, you forced me into this bath, you're not going to deny me the pleasure of your wet hands, are you?" He said wryly.

Watson didn't entirely know if he trusted himself and his 'wet hands'. Especially not while Holmes's naked form was covered in soap suds.

He gnawed on the inside of his lip, wishing desperately that Holmes did not look quite so delicious while soaking wet, with his hair so hopelessly dishevelled and tangled, one smooth, wet knee bending out of the water. The water which only just hid what lay just beneath the surface...

He avoided Holmes's eye and lathered the soap between his hands, feeling his temperature gradually and uncomfortably rise.

"Hurry." Holmes said, far too huskily.

Watson grasped the soap too tightly and it catapulted from his grasp. It hit the wall with a dull thud and landed wetly on the floorboards. They both stared at it. Beside him Holmes gave a little shuddery breath and Watson knew he was anticipating the sensation of Watson's touch.

Watson got up with some difficulty and went to fetch it. He turned to find Holmes's eyes roaming over him with undisguised longing. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Holmes was already undressing him with his eyes.

Deciding to pretend he didn't see the way Holmes's eyes were caressing his crotch, he went back to his place beside the hipbath and put the soap aside.

He looked down at his hands covered in soap and then at Holmes in the tub, watching him with a look that almost made him blush.

"I must be out of my mind." He grumbled.

Ignoring the uneasy heat now settling low in his stomach, he slid his hands beneath the water, pressing his hips firmly into the side of the bath to steady himself as well as keep himself in check.

To his chagrin, the moment his fingertips came into contact with Holmes's skin, slippery with soap he felt his prick stir immediately in his trousers, as though on cue. He cringed, pressing himself a little harder into the tub. Holmes did not make any sign that he had felt Watson's hands on him, he stayed perfectly still, silently watching Watson.

Watson lowered his eyes. "This isn't a practical method of cleaning." He said in a low voice, not moving his hands from Holmes's chest.

"But I haven't any sponges or flannels or even a scrubbing brush." Holmes said mournfully. "So I'm afraid your hands will have to do. Make sure you don't miss a spot." His voice trembled slightly.

Watson swallowed and lowered his hands to Holmes's stomach. He could feel the muscles flinching and trembling under his touch.

Holmes appeared calm but Watson noticed that both his hands were gripping the side of the tub very tightly, his knuckles were white and his nails were half embedded in the wood.

"This is stupid." Watson mumbled, still not reclaiming his hands.

Holmes gazed at him, his eyes dark. Watson lathered more soap onto his hands and slowly spread it across Holmes's shoulders. He rubbed it across his ribs and then under his arms. He didn't notice how wet his shirt was becoming or how the heat from the water was leaving a coating of perspiration on his forehead.

"Uh." He heard Holmes's mumble as Watson's forearm was pressed against his nipple.

Watson pretended not to hear. Keeping his eyes on Holmes's, he teased the fingers of his left hand down the trail of hair from Holmes's bellybutton to the space between his legs. He could hear Holmes's breathing hitching, even though he tried to restrain it. He could see him arching his back and rolling his hips forward as the sensation of Watson's touch began to grip his body.

Watson paused between Holmes's hips, aware of how hard he was despite his best efforts to quash it. Holmes, who had been determinedly containing himself before now, gave a little moan.

He twisted around so he was face to face with Watson and laid a damp hand on Watson's chest. "I think you need to undress. Now." He said in a low voice, his nails digging into Watson's skin.

Watson didn't move. "Don't be stupid." He said briskly, though every inch of his body was begging him to comply.

Holmes's grip on his shirt tightened, he willed him closer. Watson did not respond, neither did he move away. He let Holmes kiss him, his hands slipping away from Holmes's skin.

Holmes kissed him hungrily, tugging at his shirt, pleading with him wordlessly to give in to his unspoken request. "Holmes," Watson said half heartedly against his lips. "It's not even midday."

Holmes broke away. "And?" He asked, raising his eyebrows. "Is there some law I am unaware of which states that sodomy is legal after twelve, but not before?"

Watson swallowed, withdrawing his hands from the water. His shirt was sodden through and so were much of his trousers. He attempted to reason with himself. That he would have to take them off anyway because he'd have to dry them before he went home. That he would catch a dreadful cold if he sat about in wet clothes. But by the time he had undone half the buttons on his shirt, he had given up trying to make excuses for why he was undressing and getting into a hipbath with Holmes.

**oOo**

Mary did not sleep that night. She sat in her and Watson's bedroom and thought about what she would do when her husband returned the following day.

She had not yet decided how she would approach the fact that he was a sodomite. Nor that he had lied to her again and again and could have been lying to her for months or that there was something evidently wrong with their marriage if he was seeking solace in the arms of Sherlock Holmes.

She wished she had someone to speak to. She did not trust any of her 'friends'. They were a fickle, shallow lot who treasured gossip and scandal over anything else. She knew that they would pounce on the smallest scrap of evidence that her marriage was failing and would alert everyone short of the _Times_. She shuddered to think what they would say if they ever learned of her husband's defect.

It was so obvious that he had gone to Holmes the night before. He hadn't even attempted to make things right with his wife. He hadn't asked her what was wrong. He had fled. It was easier to run than to try and struggle through the night with her.

When he arrived home, she decided, she would give him a chance to confess. If he finally admitted his infidelity to her then maybe, just maybe, they could salvage the remains of their ruined marriage.

That was her resolve and she hoped and prayed desperately that it would prove her husband had not turned his back on her completely.

**oOo**

Holmes watched from his bed as Watson dressed back into a spare pair of clothes Holmes had lent him. His own clothes were soaked. As the lovemaking session in the bath had become more passionate, more water had spilled onto the floor and afterwards Watson had found his trousers floating in a puddle by the door.

Watson's fingers were clumsy as he donned his shirt. His mind felt pleasantly muddled. He couldn't quite understand what had come over him. He was not the sort of person to strip off and straddle someone in a bathtub. But he had to admit it had been quite agreeable. To say the least.

Holmes had been clearly fearful of causing harm to Watson and went about everything very gently and carefully, even when Watson became impatient and demanded he thrust harder.

Holmes had been slimy with soap. Watson could feel it between his thighs as he had been wedged against him, it made the process a bit trickier because they slid against each other and against the tub itself but some way or another they had managed to steady themselves without sliding off each other.

Watson enjoyed being fucked more this time than the last. Though it lacked the explosiveness of their first attempt, it was far less painful and Holmes seemed to have more of an idea of what he was doing. He was a quick learner, Watson found. He found the doctor's spot very swiftly and within minutes Watson was moaning helplessly into Holmes's ear.

"You know, I think I underestimated the value of a good bath." Holmes remarked, examining his pipe while Watson struggled with his belt.

"Very funny." He said over his shoulder. "Just make sure you make use of it more often. At least a couple of times a week. _At least_."

"Yes, mother." Holmes said in a bored voice.

Watson rolled his eyes and turned to him. "You still need a shave."

Holmes grimaced at him, obviously he had been hoping Watson would have forgotten given their bathtub pursuits. "Shouldn't you be getting home to your wife?"

Watson shrugged. "She won't miss me. Where do you keep your razor?"

"In the cupboard over the sink." Holmes replied distractedly, searching for a match in his pockets.

Watson disappeared out to get it.

Holmes found a match and struggled to strike it.

"Which cupboard?" Came Watson's voice.

"The only cupboard that's in there." Holmes said irritably, through the spout of his pipe.

There was silence. Holmes succeeded in lighting the pipe and took a drag.

He stared absentmindedly at the smoke curling upwards, tossing the match onto the floor.

Watson still did not return.

"Where the devil has he got to?" Holmes muttered to himself. "How long does it take to get a..."

He trailed off, horror dawning on him like a slow realisation.

"Watson!" He spluttered, tumbling off the bed, shoving his pipe onto a chair and scrambling towards the door. "Watson! It's not in the cupboard! I'm sure I-

He came face to face with Watson in the doorway. He was holding the leather case and the bottle of cocaine. His lips were very thin.

"I..." Holmes trailed off, staring at the leather case.

Wordlessly, Watson opened the case. The syringe was still there. Of course it was still there, Holmes thought irritably to himself. He swallowed. "Dear Watson-

Watson snapped the case shut with a sharp crack that made Holmes jump and flung it across the room. It hit the far wall and bounced off it onto the floor. Holmes fell back in alarm, quite certain that Watson was about to strike him.

"Is this what you've been doing since I left?" Watson spat, the anger pulsing through every feature on his face.

"No." Holmes said hollowly, knowing that even though it was the truth, Watson would never believe it.

"You told me you had given it up." Watson went on furiously, the hand holding the cocaine bottle shaking slightly. "How the hell do you expect me to ever trust you?"

"I don't know." Holmes said quietly.

"Why the hell do you do this? Why do you do this to yourself? To me?" Watson's face was beginning to become flushed. His knuckles were white.

"I don't know." Holmes repeated.

"Are you so dysfunctional that you can't even hold yourself together for a few _months_ after I've gone-

"I don't _know."_ Holmes suddenly roared at him, surprising himself as much as Watson.

Watson didn't speak, he stared at Holmes, his eyes still dark with his fury.

"I don't know why I do it." Holmes snarled. "Except that perhaps it's because you've left me and you're the only person I've felt even the remotest regard for. Except perhaps that I am alone and have nothing and no one in the world to comfort me. Except perhaps that the one person I have ever felt worthy of my affections, my deep, unwavering affections, treats me like his _whore_ to be used and then left and used and then _left_."

Holmes wanted to stop. He didn't want to tell Watson these things. He didn't want to speak these things aloud. But it was like the flood waters had breached the dam, he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't hold his emotions any longer, they were pouring out in a hot, painful deluge.

"You leave me and I have nothing to live for." Holmes went on, almost unable to keep a sob from almost breaking through his brittle words. "You leave me again and again and all I have is myself and the knowledge that you choose me second after someone else."

He crouched to his knees, his breathing heavy and shuddering. He gripped at his heart as though it pained him. It did pain him. But there was no medical name or scientific method to his pain. He was experiencing the agonies of emotion that he had so desperately attempted to block out for years.

Watson watched, frozen as Holmes crumbled to the floor, his back heaving as though he might collapse completely. He could feel the cocaine bottle in his hand, the cold glass against his fingertips. He stared at it. It was just then that he noticed it was unopened.

In the cupboard it had been shoved behind other bottles, a shamefully bad hiding attempt by Holmes but in a way that suggested it had not been intended to be used any time soon.

Watson suddenly felt a sharp swoop of guilt and self-loathing in his stomach. He didn't know how he had become so blind.

He threw the bottle across the dresser and knelt beside Holmes, pulling him forcefully up so Holmes's pale, thin face was inches from his. "I've been a bastard." He said frankly. "I've been a pig. Unworthy of you. Beneath your regard and your trust."

Holmes sniffed, avoiding his eye. His lip trembled slightly.

"I've been unfair to you and Mary." He went on, sliding his hands under Holmes's arms to support him. "It can't go on."

Holmes blinked at him. "It can't?" He said fearfully.

Watson nodded. "I want to be with you. But you know it's impossible. We can't ever be together in the way a man and a woman can be. Not outside these four walls." Holmes bowed his head. "It'd be a constant source of anxiety. We would always feel like someone suspected. We would always be lying to people. We wouldn't be able to have any true friends."

Holmes let out a little miserable sob.

Watson exhaled deeply. "But I love you." He said heavily.

Holmes looked quickly at him, his eyes damp. Watson could see his eyelashes clinging together.

"And that would make it worthwhile."

Holmes's lip was definitely trembling now. He looked as though he was barely keeping himself from bursting into tears; he kept twitching his nose and eyes in a familiar fashion that Watson had seen other people, usually women at the opera, doing to keep from crying. "You do?" He croaked.

Watson cleared his throat, feeling vaguely foolish declaring his love for Holmes while they were both on the floor and he was wearing Holmes's clothes. "Yes." He said evenly. "I've let this go on for too long. I can't keep doing this to Mary." He hesitated. "But I can't divorce her."

Holmes lowered his eyes. "Oh."

"You know that would ruin her. I don't want to destroy the rest of her life." Watson went on softly.

"How can we be together if you're still married to her?" Holmes asked sullenly.

"I'll think of something." Watson said quietly, he gently kissed Holmes who did not respond.

Then he stood up, feeling Holmes's arms slide away from him. Holmes gazed up at him.

"I'll think of something." Watson said again.

Holmes did not reply. He slowly got to his feet, leaning unsteadily on the bed.

"I have to go." Watson said straightening his shirt. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Holmes watched him from the bed. The sight of Watson's retreating back was beginning to become very well known to him.

"Watson," He said as Watson was at the door. Watson turned his head to him. "I haven't taken any cocaine since you left. That's the truth."

Watson nodded and left him.


	15. Bare Upon The Table

As soon as Watson was gone, Holmes took the case and the bottle of cocaine out of the bedroom. He emptied the contents of the bottle into one of Mrs Hudson's pot plants and took the case to the fireplace.

He lit it and knelt down, clutching the case between his hands. It was a mild day and the heat radiating from the fireplace made the leather soft and hot to the touch. Holmes dropped it onto his lap, thumbing the clasp.

He slowly opened it, a faint lump sitting his throat. The needle winked innocently at him in the firelight. He felt like he was saying goodbye to an old friend. An old friend who he had come to rely on too heavily.

He closed it again, swallowing hard. He held it out to the fireplace; the small, flickering flames licked greedily upwards, towards his outstretched hand.

He stared at the case in his hand. His mind had gone blank. His fingers were trembling slightly. He took a shuddery breath, willing himself to let go. He just had to move his fingers slightly, he just had to unclasp his hand and it would be gone. It would burn and he would be free of its grasp.

"Just do it." He hissed at himself. "Just get rid of the damned thing."

Suddenly he could feel the leather slipping from under his damp fingers. He felt it almost slide completely from his grip and with a thrill of panic dug his nails into it and flung it back onto the floorboards.

It hit the floor with a dull thud. Holmes stared at it, panting slightly and feeling sticky and damp from the heat of the fire.

He sighed to himself and went to put it back in the cupboard.

**oOo**

Watson pretended not to notice the servants' sideways glances as he removed his hat and coat by the door on his arrival home. He knew immediately that he had been missed.

He ignored them and went to find Mary. He found the bedroom deserted. He noted with a pang that the bed had been made and the clothes removed from the floor. All signs of the disastrous encounter the night before had been erased.

His study was as he had left it, everything immaculately in order. She had not been in here, he had half expected to find it dishevelled as though someone had been searching.

He searched the parlour and the dining room and finally found her in the drawing room poised with a book at the window. She looked up at him as he entered but did not, as he had half expected, bear down on him like an angry wolf. She didn't even look vaguely surprised to see him. She did not smile, raise her eyebrows, frown or even close her book.

"Mary," He said anxiously, striding to her side and taking her small, cold hand in his. She looked up at him blankly, as though she didn't even recognise him as her husband. "Mary, I'm so sorry."

She said nothing. Her hand was limp in his. Her eyes were strangely vacant.

"I shouldn't have left you last night." He said, feeling his heart begin to thud anxiously in his chest.

Mary snatched back her hand and fixed him with a calculating look. "No. You should not have." She said coolly, closing her book with a soft thud of leather on paper.

Watson was not surprised by her anger. He knew that he deserved it. But he also knew that she would forgive him. She always forgave him. She was his sweet, understanding wife. She would always allow him his faults and failings. He was so blind by that assurance that he did not comprehend the silent rage settling in her eyes.

"I'm sorry we fought," He said earnestly, kneeling by her. "I'm sorry that I left. I just felt... confused and upset." He grasped her hand appealingly. "You understand, don't you?" He needed her to tell him that she forgave him, that he had not hurt her. He was selfishly hoping she would ease his guilt.

He studied her face. She looked pale and drawn and there were dark, discoloured shadows under her eyes. He wondered if she had slept at all the night before. Maybe she had even waited for him. Waited until it became clear that he was not coming back. He lowered his eyes.

He felt her pull her hand again from his. "You left me in the middle of the night." She said quietly, every word a stinging reproach. He forced himself to meet her eye. "You left me in the middle of the night without a word of explanation." Her voice and gaze were steady "You left me."

Watson stared at her. He had expected her to be angry- but he had also expected her to forgive him and to tell him she understood. She _always_ forgave him, she _always_ understood. But there was no smile on her lips now, there was no warmth in her eyes. Not this time.

"I-I'm sorry..." He faltered, standing up unsteadily and turning away from her. "I know it was not the right thing-

"Where did you go?" She asked suddenly.

Watson glanced down at his hands. The hands he had used to make love to Holmes, bathe Holmes, hold and comfort Holmes. He felt as though there were blood on them.

He walked to the writing desk, still not turning to her. He stood at the edge of it, pretending to neaten some old letters left there. His hands were trembling slightly. His mouth felt dry. He knew he needed to speak. He knew he had to tell her the truth. This was his chance to put an end to the lies and betrayal. He just had to tell her the truth. He would deal with her anger and her hurt.

He cleared his throat. He rolled the words around in his mouth. "I..." He began weakly, dampening his lips. "I..."

"Yes?" She prompted him sharply.

"Was in a hotel." The words fell from his lips before he could stop them.

He turned to her, feeling his heart sinking. "I was in a hotel." He repeated, cursing himself.

For a moment, she said nothing. She gazed at him, the book still in her hands. Watson could feel himself colouring under her cold eyes.

"Indeed." Mary said softly at last and he knew she did not believe him. "Which?"

"I don't know." Watson replied numbly. "I don't remember the name."

"Where was it situated?" She pressed him.

"I don't remember." Watson said impatiently. "Can we please just forget it? I'm sorry. I was wrong to leave you. But what's done is done-

"Yes, of course." She said roughly. He felt silent.

They stared at each other. Watson fidgeted uncomfortably where he stood. He thought of Holmes alone in Baker Street, he thought of the bed they had shared and how he had held him and he wished, not for the first time, that he were a wiser man.

At length Mary sighed. To Watson's relief, she smiled. A wan struggling little smile but a smile all the same. "I'm sorry. You're right. Let us not linger on... such things." She put her book aside and stood up, smoothing down her skirts.

Overcome with relief, Watson went to her and gently put his fingertips under her chin. "I'm glad you understand." He said gently.

She slowly looked up at him. An odd look came across her features, but so fleetingly that if he had not been so close, he would not have seen it.

And then, to his surprise, she kissed him. He felt her lips beneath his, pursed and tight. It was like kissing a stone statue of a woman. Just weeks ago kissing her had been passionate and ardent, now she could not even muster the strength to move her lips in response to his.

He broke away and saw immediately that he had congratulated himself too soon on successfully appeasing her.

Her whole form was shaking. Watson felt his blood turn cold and he felt frozen where he stood.

"The fact," She began in a voice shuddering with barely suppressed anger. "That you can stand in my house, under my roof and look me in the eye and tell me you slept in a hotel last night when I can _smell his tobacco on your breath_ is _truly_ stunning." She spat the last words at him with a venom he had never heard in her voice before.

He could feel his whole body going numb with shock and disbelief. He couldn't move, he couldn't even look away. He felt paralysed.

_No. She couldn't know. How could she know? She couldn't possibly know._ He told himself in a desperate, rapid succession.

"Mary." He said hollowly, not completely aware of his mouth moving. "What do you mean?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What sort of halfwit do you take me for?" She said icily. "Do you think I don't know what you are?" She took a shuddery breath. "I know... I know you're..." She couldn't bring herself to say the word. She swallowed, the disgust terribly evident in her every feature of her face. "With that... that _freak_."

Watson didn't speak. Everything was swimming before his eyes, the floor seemed to sway underneath him. He couldn't believe this was happening. He couldn't believe that everything was crumbling down around him so suddenly and without warning.

"Did you think I wouldn't ever discover it?" She spat at him. "Did you intend to lie to me until my dying day?"

Watson stumbled back, he had to put space between them. Her words were making him sick to his stomach. He turned away and almost staggered to the writing desk, leaning heavily on it to support himself.

"Did you ever love me?" She asked in quiet rage. "Or was marriage just a convenient facade to cover up your own sordid little activities?" She laughed humourlessly. "You took me for a right fool. I was so willing. I was so desperate for you to love me. I would have forgiven you anything." She gave another cold, bitter laugh.

Watson's heart was beating so hard in his chest it almost hurt. He felt nauseous and light headed, he felt like he was going to throw up or pass out completely. The panic and the shock were taking full control of him.

"Did you intend to take advantage of me specifically or was I just lucky enough to stumble across your path at the right moment?" She asked him poisonously. "Did you ever feel anything _close_ to regard for me?"

Watson still did not answer. His throat felt like it had closed in on itself.

" _Answer me!"_ She screamed at him. "For God's _sake_ , answer me. If you're a man, if you have any decency, you tell me the truth for once-

She broke off with a sob.

Watson could feel the hot, ashamed moisture beginning to spill from his eyes. "I..." He pressed a hand to his eyes, as if trying to force back the tears. "I'm sorry." He said hollowly.

"I d-don't... w-want your... _apology_." Mary stammered through her tears, hardly able to articulate the words her body shook so much.

He heard her collapse down against something. He could hear her crying. She was crying as though she had just lost him, as though he had just died in her arms. She was stricken with grief and he could barely stand it. He wanted her to hate him. He could take hatred. He couldn't take this. He couldn't take her pain.

He unsteadily straightened himself, the tears thick and cold on his cheeks. "You can't throw away this marriage." He said in a toneless voice, watching her curled against the base of the window, her face buried into the seat. "I won't allow a divorce."

She looked up sharply at him, her face was stained and red. "You won't allow a divorce?" She croaked. "You won't _allow_ a divorce?"

She staggered upright, anger breaking through her sadness as he had hoped it would. "What gives you the right?" She spat.

Watson rounded on her. "You're my wife, you'll do as I say." He snarled at her. "Do you think a divorce will solve all your problems? If we divorce, you'll never have a chance of happiness, I assure you. I will try and make things right but I will not _allow_ a divorce." He could feel himself becoming flushed. He was angry with her even though he knew he shouldn't be. He couldn't stand the sight of her. He just wanted to be away from her and the cruel reality she had brought down on him.

He thought perhaps she would hit him or scream at him again but she did not. She had fallen silent. She gazed at him, her face suddenly calm again.

"Do you hear me?" Watson said hollowly.

He turned his back on her and went to the writing desk, falling tiredly into the chair behind it.

Silence fell heavily on them. Mary seemed frozen where she was, she was not looking at him. She was staring at the floorboards, her eyes were sore from crying but no tears were falling now.

Watson wondered what she was thinking of. What could she think? Everything had been laid bare upon the table. Her husband was not the honourable, loyal, good natured doctor she had been tricked into marrying. Here was a man who had lied to her, who had concealed his true nature and then punished her for discovering it. He felt repulsive. He felt like he had become everything he had always reviled. He was selfish, greedy and destructive to everyone around him and finally Mary realised it.

At length she came to the edge of his desk and placed both her hands on the table top, fixing him with a steady gaze. "If these are the last words I ever speak to you, I want you to know that I speak them truthfully." She said softly. "I loved you. I truly did. I wanted us to spend our lives together. I wanted to be a good wife to you." Watson bowed his head. "But you have betrayed me in the worst way imaginable." She went on coldly. "And so I hope you and Holmes find happiness together. And then I hope you spend an eternity burning in hell."

She turned on her heel and stalked from the room.


	16. Those Words

The liqueur cabinet in the drawing room had been installed by Watson for a mixture of show and hospitality. He didn't usually go near it himself. He didn't drink much as a rule and Mary didn't drink at all except on very rare occasions.

That evening he found himself halfway through a bottle of gin before he was entirely aware of what he was doing. He hadn't even known they kept gin in the house. Most likely one of the servants had stashed it there for safe keeping, knowing Watson and Mary were highly unlikely to ever find it.

He sat in his study with the gin and a pile of badly rolled cigarettes that he no longer felt like smoking, and brooded. He recounted his and Mary's argument with intense resentment. There was so much he hadn't been able to say. He had handled it badly, to put it simply. He had not dealt with Mary's understandable anger well. He had been caught off guard and he had performed like an utter prick. To put it simply.

He had seen the look on her face. The disgust. The loathing. Of him. Her own husband. He was shaken by the intensity of her reaction. Perhaps he had naively hoped she would understand his relationship with Holmes. But of course she wouldn't. No one would. He hardly did himself-

"Oh for God's sake, stop that." He snapped at himself, burying his face in his palm.

He couldn't start doubting himself. Not now. It was too late to start having doubts. Far _far_ too late. Mary would never touch him now. She would never forget or forgive what he had done. The fact that he wouldn't divorce her just intensified her hatred.

But how could he divorce her? It would destroy her prospects. No other respectable man would touch her.

"But what other option is there?" He snarled at himself, taking another mouthful of gin and slamming the tumbler down. "What the hell do I do? What the hell does she want from me?"

He stared moodily into the unlit fireplace, clutching the half empty tumbler in his hand. He was beginning to feel the effects of the gin. His head felt light. He wished it also lightened some of the guilt and uncertainty from his chest.

He exhaled heavily and laid his head down on the desk, feeling emotionally if not physically drained.

He had no intention of sleeping in the same bed as Mary that night or perhaps any night following. She had made her feelings towards him very clear. The thought of sleeping next to her made his insides twist with embarrassment and shame. He was not in love with her. He doubted she was with him. He had hurt her too deeply and she... was just wrong for him.

Though he knew it was more complicated than that. He was in love with Holmes. He knew he always would be. He didn't know if he deserved a chance to be with him after everything he had done and all the pain he had caused but he truly loved him and that seemed to be the only thing at present that he could be certain of.

**oOo**

Holmes struggled to his feet and stood back to admire his handiwork, his pipe in hand. The walls were clean, the clutter had been dispersed, the floorboards polished and the chair cushions scrubbed. The stain on Holmes's chair was still very noticeable but it was clean. He had put a throw cushion over it. One day he would go out and buy a new chair. Ideally before Mrs Hudson found it.

He was very pleased with himself. He had never had Watson's inclination for cleanliness. He was happy to let something become as dirty as humanely possible and then dispose of it and buy something new. Apparently this was not _economical_ , according to Watson. So he had done his best. He wanted Watson to be proud of him.

He balanced his pipe between his teeth and rolled down his trousers. "Tea is in order." He said cheerfully to himself, feeling embarrassingly chipper for someone who had just spent four hours scrubbing his lover's blood out of a cushion.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Ah. Two o' clock." He had somewhat lost track of time.

He decided not to wake Mrs Hudson. Not because he thought it too late but rather because he didn't want to have to endure her complaining of her stiff hands while she rattled about with the tea tray.

He felt strangely light hearted and content and he didn't want Mrs Hudson's whinging to ruin his uncharacteristically good mood. He was happy even though he knew everything would not be as simple as Watson had assured him it would be. With divorce off the table, he couldn't comprehend what Watson was thinking of doing about his wife. Strangling her and disposing of her body in the Thames?

Holmes raised an eyebrow to himself. Tempting. But perhaps not sensible.

They could, of course, send her off to the country. Many husbands did so throughout the summer months under the pretence of sparing them the stink of the Thames but rather so they could enjoy the company of their mistresses. Holmes thought that was an attractive option. But he doubted whether Watson would be content to just put her out of sight and mind.

He balanced his pipe on the fireplace and removed his shirt. He had a series of strange bulbous like bumps on his right side from some insect that had fallen on him when he had been dusting the mantel piece. He traced his finger around them absentmindedly, dropping the shirt onto the floor.

Of course. They could have her thrown in Bedlam. He had always been intrigued by the asylum. He had walked past there sometimes when he had been on a case and had needed to stimulate his mind. He liked to think he could hear the screams and cries from inside the high gates but he supposed it was possibly just his imagination.

It was probably overkill to want Mary in there. He didn't think he would wish a lifetime within those confines on anyone. Not even her.

He stretched with a yawn and picked up his pipe again. "I hope Watson knows what he's doing." He mumbled to himself, shuffling towards the bedroom.

He was halfway to the doorway when there was quiet knock at the door behind him. If it hadn't been the middle of the night, he doubted he would have heard it.

He turned with raised eyebrows, the pipe still between his teeth. His thoughts immediately went to Watson. Perhaps he'd come back for another impromptu fuck. As much as Holmes disliked being somebody's plaything, he couldn't say he was disappointed.

He ran a hand quickly through his hair and glanced down at himself. His trousers were filthy and the bumps were strung like a strange pattern on his ribs but he was clean, thanks to Watson's efforts in the bathtub.

He put down his pipe and went to answer it, grinning at the look of amazement that would be on Watson's face when he saw the clean rooms.

"Back again, are w-

He stopped short. The grin evaporated from his face. It was not Watson.

"Mr. Holmes."

Mary's quiet, thin voice echoed about the pitch black corridor.

Holmes stared at her, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Of all the people to appear at his door at two in the morning, his lover's wife was the least expected- and the least welcome.

"Miss Mor- I mean Mrs. Watson... what are you- I mean..." Holmes stammered, his attempt to be civil sabotaged by his surprise.

"May I come in?" She asked him abruptly, not glancing down at his bare torso, his dirt encrusted trousers, the insect bites.

Holmes didn't want her in his rooms. He certainly did not what to speak to her at two in the morning. "Okay." He said numbly, surprising himself.

He stood back to let her in.

She stepped promptly over the threshold and glanced around the room. Holmes felt a rush of resentment towards her. This was for Watson, not her.

"I'm sorry I've come so late. I assumed you would still be awake." She said quietly.

Holmes closed the door. "Oh, you did, did you?" He breathed, wondering just who had revealed his fragmented sleeping patterns to her.

He turned to find her watching him. She looked paler than he remembered her. Her clothes seemed to hang looser on her already slight figure.

She was watching him with her cold, steady blue eyes. She had the kind of eyes which made him feel like she knew everything about him with one glance. He resented it. He resented her.

He fidgeted uncomfortably where he was. He suddenly remembered he was still shirtless and went to fetch it from beside the fireplace. It was also an excuse to avoid her eye. Her constant gaze made him uneasy.

"You can sit down." He shot at her over his shoulder.

"I'm fine." She replied.

"Well. What is it you want?" Holmes said, as politely as he felt inclined to be.

"I want to speak to you." She said. "I want to speak to you about my husband."

Holmes froze. "Oh?" He said nonchalantly. "What about him?"

"Mr. Holmes." She said in a severely calm voice. "I would appreciate it if you looked at me."

Holmes swallowed. He didn't want to look at her. He wished desperately that he hadn't answered the door.

Abandoning his buttons, he grudgingly turned to her. "What about him?" He said quietly.

Her gaze was unwavering. There was no fear or hesitation in her eyes. Not like what he knew was in his.

"I know what crime you have committed." She said and Holmes felt as though the walls shook from the weight of her words. She didn't sound angry or accusing and Holmes didn't know what to say. Should he deny it? Did she have proof? His heart sunk. Had Watson told her?

"What do you mean?" He heard himself ask stupidly.

"Do not toy with me, Mr. Holmes." She said, her eyes sharp. "I mean unnatural acts between members of the same sex. I mean unspeakable offences against God." Her lips thinned. "Sodomy."

Holmes took a gulp of air. He had forgotten to breathe while she'd been speaking. He had been too horrified and stunned to comprehend what she had been saying. "Sodomy." He repeated dully.

"Yes. I trust you know what it is." She said irritably, her patience suddenly waning with him. "I trust you, of all people, are well aware of the law's stance on this... act." She spoke every word with a poison Holmes hadn't expected to ever hear in her voice. He had always thought her rather unintelligent and insipid.

"You believe Watson and I partakers in sodomy?" He asked, forcing himself to keep calm and to deflect her accusations until he could be sure if she even had proof or was just acting on jealous suspicion.

"I _know_." She said icily. "I saw it with my own eyes, Mr. Holmes. I could not mistake what I saw."

Holmes swallowed. "You saw it?"

"Clear as day." She said coolly.

Holmes stared at her for a moment in silence and then cleared his throat and turned from her under the pretence of finding his pipe. In reality it was so he could have a moment to think without having her eyes on him.

"Preposterous." He said with a weak laugh. "Watson would never-

"Don't you dare try and tell me I'm wrong." She said poisonously. "That my husband would _never_ do such a thing, my husband would _never_ betray me, _never_ do anything so hurtful and deceitful." She laughed bitterly. "The kindest thing my husband has done since we were married is admit what he had done without lying to me as you have done."

Holmes gazed at the blackened fireplace, sucking on the spout of his pipe. It had gone out but he did not relight it.

"What do you want from me?" He said tiredly at length. "If you already know it for truth, why do you come to me for an admission?"

"I did not come here to question you." She said coldly. "I came to appeal to your human decency." She took a shuddery breath. "If you have any." She added under her breath.

"Appeal to me to do what?" Holmes asked sharply.

"Leave my husband alone." She said simply.

"What?" Holmes said incredulously, turning to her.

"End it." She said calmly. "Do not speak to him. Do not let him come to you. Do not attempt to see him. Make him think you have abandoned him."

Holmes felt a pulse of anger go through him. The guilt that had been settling low in his stomach abruptly evaporated. "Why would I do such a thing?" He demanded. "I love-

He broke off, cheeks flushing furiously.

She studied his face carefully. "Do it because you love him." She said.

Holmes narrowed his eyes at her. "What?"

"You know that what has gone on between you and him has no future." She said softly. "You know that you and him cannot be together. You know that you would damn him to a life as an outcast. You would make him a sinner." She paused, taking a shaky breath. "Leave him and know that you have done what is best for him."

Holmes was so angry he could hardly bear to look at her. The hatred and bile he felt bubbling inside of him was like nothing he had felt before. He despised her. He despised the half life she wanted to force upon Watson. "You ask this for yourself." He said, his voice trembling. "You do not ask this for Watson."

She looked at him with something in her eyes Holmes had not expected to see: pity. "Are you so blind that you think that I can ever be happy now with or without John? I will never recover this, Holmes. I will never heal from this wound."

Holmes lowered his eyes.

"But you can do one shred of good to me and to John." There was a desperation to her voice that made his insides writhe. "You can leave him to recover this and be the man he once was. You can save him-

"Get out." Holmes said in a low voice. He couldn't bear to hear any more.

There was silence. He could feel her gaze on him. He clutched the pipe so tightly in his hand that the spout cut into his flesh. He wanted her to leave. He wanted to be as far from her as humanely possible. He hated her. He hated every word that came from her mouth.

She did not speak. He heard the rustle of her skirts and her footsteps towards the door and glanced up. She looked back at him and he saw, under the mask of indifference, the pain in her eyes. He wished he had kept his eyes on the floor.

The door closed behind her and he was alone again.

**oOo**

"Where the hell have you been?"

Mary glanced wordlessly at Watson. She calmly removed her shawl and bonnet and hung them on the hat stand.

"Out." She said to her husband's suspicious face, pulling her gloves off.

"Out where?" He snapped.

Mary sent him a disdainful look and tossed the gloves over her arm. She tried to step around him.

Watson grabbed her sleeve. "What do you mean "out"?" He demanded, twisting the material in his fist to stop her from moving.

She stopped and looked at him. He let go of her as though he'd been stung.

"It's two-thirty." He said through gritted teeth. "I was concerned."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "That you noticed my absence at all is astonishing." She said dryly.

Watson's lips thinned. "I still care about you, Mary, whatever else you believe." He said quietly.

"Don't bore me with your self-righteous twaddle." She snapped. "I am no longer obliged to listen."

Watson swallowed, refraining from snapping back. "I know you're angry-

"Oh! Do you!" Mary said shrilly. "How observant of you."

"But I think that you are aware that gallivanting about London in the middle of the night is stupid and irresponsible." Watson went on coldly.

"And why should you care if I was _gallivanting_ about London?" Mary retorted. "I should think it would things all very simple for you if I were to have my throat split in some alleyway."

The colour drained from Watson's face. "You really think I want that?" He said hollowly.

"Then you and Holmes could have everything we couldn't." She said venomously, pushing roughly past him. "He and you deserve each other. You're as deluded and as selfish as each other."

She was at the base of the stairs when it suddenly dawned on him. He turned slowly to her. "You went to Baker Street?"

She paused where she was and looked back at him, one hand resting on the banister. She watched him silently as though she were waiting to see what he would do next.

"You went to his home? You went to accuse him of... of..." Watson was almost too angry to speak.

"I did not accuse him of anything." Mary said quietly. "Why would I accuse him of something I already know is true?"

"What good does it do?" Watson said furiously, clenching his fists. "What good does it do to go and upset him?"

Mary's eyes flashed. "Upset him?" She repeated softly. "I am very sorry if I have upset him. It was not my intention."

Watson gritted his teeth. "You had no right to go-

"I had _every_ right to go." Mary said sharply. "I had every right to go and look into the face of the man who destroyed our marriage-

"I don't want you near him!" Watson snarled at her.

Mary was silent. She gazed at him calmly, her features strangely blank.

Watson turned and snatched his coat from the stand, he pulled it on and pushed his hat onto his head. When he turned back to her, she hadn't moved. She was still watching him.

"I'm sorry." Watson said.

"There's only so many times I can hear those words and still believe them." Mary said bluntly.

Watson lowered his eyes. He heard her footsteps disappear up the stairs.

He pulled his coat collar up higher around his neck and headed out into the early morning cold.


	17. Of All Times

Watson was in a blur of panic as he sped towards Baker Street. He didn't truly think Mary capable of harming anyone. Not even the man who had destroyed her marriage but he couldn't contain the fear that Mary's hatred and resentment of him would be brought down on Holmes's head. Mary knew now that to hurt Watson she only need use Holmes. But whether or not she would do so was another matter.

He took the stairs two at a time, his heart in his throat and fell upon Holmes's door immediately. He intended to knock until Holmes answered or else he'd break it down.

"Holmes!" He yelled, hammering with his fist on the wood. All thoughts of not waking Mrs Hudson- or indeed the whole street were banished in his panic. "Holmes! Open the door this instant! Do you hear m-

To his immense surprise the door abruptly flew open. Holmes stared at him pale faced, with an anxious frown marring his handsome features. Watson stared back at him, his fist still frozen in mid-air.

"Holmes..." He said uncertainly, lowering his hand.

Holmes shook his head slightly at him and turned on his heel. Watson followed him, closing the door behind him. He glanced around the room and raised his eyebrows. It was clean. Much of Holmes's endless piles of clutter had been cleared away, the floor was gleaming.

"You know, I wouldn't really mind if she slapped me across the face or called me a worthless pig or set my house on fire," Holmes was saying, his voice shaking with obvious fury. "But to come into my home and-

He broke off, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. He turned to Watson. "I hate her." He said flatly.

Watson felt the slightest flicker of annoyance. "Now, Holmes." He said reasonably. "You can't blame her for being angry-

"No, but I can blame _you_ for her ever discovering us in the first place." Holmes retorted, pushing a frustrated hand through his hair.

"She was bound to find out sooner or later, Holmes." Watson said impatiently. "That I ever thought she wouldn't is, indeed, my fault but it was inevitable."

"Your carelessness has ruined us." Holmes snapped at him, his eye narrowed. "You've ruined... _everything_." He clenched his fists. Watson wondered if he was intending to hit him.

"What was there to ruin!" Watson exclaimed. "This wasn't a relationship. This was a... a... constant struggle!"

Holmes rolled his eyes spitefully and said nothing.

"And why are you blaming Mary?" Watson demanded. "If it hadn't been her, it would have been someone else. You should be _thankful_ it was Mary-

"Thankful!" Holmes spluttered.

"If someone else had found us, someone who had nothing to lose from our downfall, do you think they would have taken the time to confront us? We would have been in a Newgate cell before we had time to blink." Watson said furiously, his colour rising. "We were reckless. We didn't truly comprehend what could happen if we were discovered. We could be imprisoned, Holmes. If we're lucky. We're more likely to get beaten to death in the street. People _despise_ us Holmes. We have no acceptance among them! In their eyes, we deserve to die and burn in hell when we do."

"So you lied to me." Holmes said bitterly, his lips thin. "You lied to me when you said I was worth the pain, worth the risk."

"No! I didn't lie I just-

Watson broke off with an infuriated sigh.

"You just _what_?" Holmes snarled.

"What do you want me to say?" Watson spat. "What do you want from me? I'm just a man, Holmes. I can't control everything all of the time! I'm not perfect. I've made mistakes. I know that I'm flawed. I know I'll never be the man you are but I'm _trying,_ I'm trying to be a good man." Watson's voice faltered, he lowered his eyes with a shake of his head.

Holmes laughed humourlessly. "I've never wanted you to be perfect. I just wanted you to put me first, to value me over all others. But... how can you? How can you put me first when you're chained to someone else?"

"I can't divorce her, Holmes." Watson said in a low voice, tiredly rubbing his face.

" _Why_!" Holmes exploded, his cheeks flushing. "There is no other option! Think about yourself for once! Think about _me_! You have said yourself that this cannot continue. Sever your ties to that woman! For God's sake, Watson." He turned on his heel and began to pace restlessly up and down the room, wringing his hands. "For God's sake. What sort of useless fool, are you?"

"I don't want to destroy her, Holmes." Watson said quietly.

Holmes rounded on him. " _And what about me_?" He shouted, his face screwed up in anger. "I won't give you up to that hag! Damn that, woman."

Watson bristled. "Do not say that."

Holmes narrowed his eyes at him. "Damn. Her." He said slowly, resentment seeping through every word like poison. "Damn her to hell-

"I said _don't say that_." Watson snarled, striding forward and taking Holmes's wrists roughly. "You have no right to say such things!"

Holmes wrenched himself from Watson's grasp, the infuriation evident in every feature. He turned abruptly away and resumed his agitated pacing up and down. "She asked me to abandon you, Watson. She asked me to make you think that I had grown bored, that I didn't want you. What sort of person would ask such a thing?"

Watson was stunned. It was the last thing he had expected to hear. But he hastily hid his surprise. "A person who has been hurt and betrayed." He said firmly. "A person who has lost everything."

Holmes whirled around to face him, his breathing harsh and his eyes dark. He looked as though he wanted to strike Watson or scream at him, a look of frustration and pain came fleetingly and intensely across his face. Then, abruptly the angry bile pumping through him seemed to drain away. He slumped visibly where he stood. To Watson's amazement Holmes crumpled against him, burying his hands in Watson's shirt and breathing shakily.

"Holmes!" Watson said, staring down at the detective in bewilderment.

"I'm sorry." Holmes said in a muffled voice, not letting go.

"For what?" Watson said weakly, placing a hand awkwardly on his shoulder.

"For being angry with you." He said unhappily, looking up at Watson. The height difference was particularly obvious when they were close. Holmes's hair was tickling Watson's nose. "Please don't leave me."

Watson raised his eyebrows. "And when did I ever say that I had any intention of leaving you?"

Holmes pulled back slightly, peering at him with a sharp but not quite suspicious look in his eyes. "Mary knowing... it changes everything."

"I know." Watson said quietly.

Silence fell between them. Neither of them said it, but they were afraid. Afraid that they were now at the mercy of a bitter and angry woman who had been hurt and betrayed and had no reason to protect them except out of pure charity. They were afraid of what the morning would bring for both of them. It would be terrible to be condemned and punished for their love, terrible to be paraded as sodomites and sinners through the streets of London to an ignorant and unforgiving crowd. But the worst fate of all was one where they were apart.

Watson slid one arm around Holmes's shoulders and the other around his waist. Holmes clung onto him as though for dear life, his face half buried in the inside of Watson's unbuttoned coat.

"What will we do?" Holmes asked vaguely.

Watson didn't reply. He pressed his lips into Holmes's hair, clutching him closer to him.

For a while the two men just stood and held each other in the middle of Holmes's now spotless rooms. They didn't want to let go. Holmes thought he'd stop breathing if he loosened his grip even slightly on Watson. The terror he felt at losing Watson was very real. It pulsed through his veins like a toxin. He couldn't control the panic and dread in his heart. Without Watson, he felt he had no ability to go on existing.

Watson could feel Holmes's breath hot on his throat. It was a cold night but Holmes's warm weight was more than enough to keep him comfortable. He wanted to protect Holmes from the dreadful realities of their situation. He wanted to shield him from the hatred and intolerance of the world. But how did you protect or shield someone as brilliant as Holmes? Holmes saw things others didn't. He already knew the implications of their discovery. He already knew that Watson was torn between duty, honour and his deep love for Holmes. He knew that Watson could not merely cast off the chains of his marriage as a lesser man would have done. Watson felt the weight of Holmes's knowledge and wished fruitlessly that he could ease the sorrow and pain it must cause him.

He felt Holmes sway slightly against him. He jerked and peered down at him, the detective's eyes were half closed, he seemed almost asleep. "You're tired. You should go to bed." He said.

Holmes mumbled something incoherent. He didn't seem particularly inclined to move.

"It's almost dawn." Watson said mildly.

"Don't leave." Holmes croaked.

"I'm not going to leave." Watson said dryly. "But we can't stand here all night. Let me take you to bed."

Holmes was perfectly able to walk but he liked the idea of being carried to bed by Watson so he allowed the taller man to scoop him up, with some difficulty, and take him haphazardly to the bedroom. He almost knocked him unconscious on the doorframe but recovered well.

Watson dropped Holmes on the bed and lay down beside him. Holmes curled up against him. Watson got the feeling Holmes was unwilling to let go of him. He put his arms around Holmes and they lay still on the bed in the darkness.

They were both still fully clothed. Watson still had his shoes and coat on. It was uncomfortable but neither of them cared.

"How did she discover it?" Holmes asked into the silence.

"I don't know." Watson replied heavily.

Silence fell on them again. Watson stared at the ceiling, enjoying the sensation of Holmes's chest gently rising and falling against him. If he hadn't been so filled with dread he would have thought this what heaven felt like.

He didn't notice a hand in the darkness moving stealthily downward towards his slightly parted legs.

It wasn't until he felt fingertips trailing down his inner thigh that he jumped and blinked at Holmes, his eyes just able to make out his face in the dark. "Holmes!" He exclaimed. "Of all times!"

The hand settled on the bump between his legs. "Do you want me to stop?" Holmes asked, sliding his hand under the band of Watson's trousers, the downy hair was soft under his skin, he curled it between his fingertips, enjoying the little breathy gasp it drew from Watson.

"Holmes," Watson said weakly, as Holmes pushed his hand further down inside Watson's trousers.

Holmes pressed his mouth to Watson's ear. "This could be the last time." He breathed.

"Don't be so dramatic." Watson grumbled, though he felt a pang low down in his stomach.

Holmes slid his hand inside Watson's underwear and began to stroke his hardening length, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. Watson felt Holmes loosen the buttons so he could take him in hand. Watson arched his back slightly, the sensation of Holmes's cold hand around his rapidly swelling prick was strange and not entirely pleasant.

"Get your hands out of my trousers, Holmes." He said half-heartedly. "Your fingers are like icicles."

He could just make out Holmes grinning at him through the darkness. "We'll have to create some friction then, won't we, dear Watson?"

He began to move his hand rapidly up and down Watson's shaft. Watson let out a low groan, rolling his hips forward.

"Is that better?" Holmes asked while Watson grunted and jerked beside him, his legs sprawled apart.

"Ugh God-

Was all Watson managed to emit.

Holmes grinned wider and tightened his grip.

The friction certainly _was_ helping. Holmes's hands were rapidly warming up and in turn so were other things. It was strange. Watson had had this particular 'treatment' time and time again but he had never had the odd sensation of his body being entirely cold except for the area between his legs. It was unnervingly pleasurable but different to the sensations he had experienced before. Holmes's slightly callused hand moved tightly and steadily up and down, maintaining a brisk pace as though he wanted to maintain the friction that was causing Watson's breath to audibly catch in his throat.

"Very responsive tonight, aren't we?" Holmes teased.

Watson would have glared at Holmes if he hadn't been too dulled by pleasure to think. As though on their own accord, his hips had began rocking in response to Holmes's hand, causing a surge of heat around his groin.

Holmes brushed his lips along Watson's cheek to his mouth, running his tongue gently along the inside of Watson's parted lips. Watson made a muffled sound in his throat, closing his eyes with his brow knitted. Holmes smirked to himself as he stroked the head of Watson's sex.

"Damp already?" He remarked slyly. "You have no self-control."

Watson opened his eyes, trying to glower at Holmes when he had seemed to have lost much of his facial control.

"You're so easily pleased, Watson." Holmes went on with a sigh, as Watson flushed pink. "You make my job too easy-

"Right." Watson said abruptly, taking Holmes firmly by the waist and sprawling him on his back. He rolled on top of him, looking down in triumph at the bewildered detective. "I'm not at your mercy yet, Holmes." He growled, pushing his lips to Holmes's.

Holmes whimpered against his mouth and Watson felt two hands in his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. He moved his hands and knees either side of Holmes so that he wasn't pinned against him and crushing him with his weight.

"Undress me." Holmes mumbled as they broke apart. He looked up at Watson, eyes darkened with his desire. Every inch of him was begging to be taken. His lips were flushed and damp with saliva, they reminded Watson strangely and guiltily of the damp tightness he would soon fill. Holmes was so erotic and so changeable. It drove Watson close to madness with lust for him.

Watson didn't need telling twice. He knelt over Holmes, hurriedly tending to the buttons with clumsy hands. He pulled Holmes's shirt off and dropped it to the floor. He slowly undid Holmes's trousers and pulled them down to his knees, and then he did the same to his underwear. Holmes tilted his head back at Watson's touch. He spread his legs submissively and Watson smiled, gently trailing his fingertips down Holmes's cock and then down the inside of his thigh.

He took his hand away to remove his own shirt and trousers and heard Holmes let out a protesting whine.

"Patience." Watson said crisply, he paused. "And don't touch yourself."

Holmes sent him a pained look but said nothing.

He shrugged off his coat and folded it over the foot of the bed and then unlaced and removed his boots one by one, not heeding Holmes's desperate pleas for him to hurry.

"At least talk to me." Holmes whined, gripping the bars of the bed with both hands and throwing his head back against them with a frustrated noise.

"Talk to you?" Watson said puzzled, pausing half way through his shirt buttons.

Holmes raised his head. "Say unchaste things to me." He said long-sufferingly, as though he doubted the clean mouthed Dr. Watson would ever sink to such lows. "Talk to me. Be vulgar." His voice lowered almost to a growl.

"No!" Watson said predictably, returning to undoing his buttons one by one.

Holmes groaned in dismay, writhing around on his back, whining and whimpering. Watson rolled his eyes. "You'd think he was dying of the plague." He muttered to himself. He did not hurry himself, the longer he made Holmes wait, the more ravenous he would be when he finally had Watson's attention.

"Are you too proper to do such things?" Holmes panted, flexing his fingers around the bars. "You don't have to be proper around me." He paused. "After all, I've seen you orgasm."

"Holmes." Watson prickled. "I'm not partaking in your filthy activities."

He must have immediately realised the irony of such a statement while he was currently undressing to partake in buggery and busied himself with his cuff buttons to avoid Holmes's eye.

Holmes sat up straight with some difficulty, his half flaccid cock still giving him grief. "Have you never spoken about your desires out loud?"

"Holmes!" Watson snapped, ripping off his shirt and dropping it beside the bed. "Please!"

Holmes cocked his head, enjoying the sight of Watson's toned, olive torso but not enough to make him drop his current pursuit. "Are you honestly telling me that you've _never_ spoken about... prurient matters?"

"Who would I have chance to speak to?" Watson said, glaring at him. "Mary? Mrs Hudson? _Lestrade?_ "

"Me." Holmes said simply.

"Well, you're not particularly verbal about such matters either." Watson retorted.

"I can be if you like." Holmes said serenely, lying back against the bed head.

Watson hesitated. He didn't know if he was ready to hear Sherlock Holmes talk dirty again. It was unnerving. Unnatural. But a part of him... a low down part of him... wanted more than anything to hear Holmes's lewd little fantasies. Though Holmes had such limited experience with such matters he had to doubt whether he'd have much to say.

"Alright." Watson shrugged, beginning to undo his trousers. "What 'prurient matters' are you going to speak about?"

Holmes smirked, unseen by Watson. "Why don't I tell you about the first time I saw you?"

Watson paused. That didn't sound so bad. "Alright. Tell me about the first time you saw me."

"You were as brown as a gypsy. You looked as though you hadn't eaten in months. You were covered in cuts and scars." Holmes said, voice suddenly low, almost in a purr. "You had the prettiest face. I couldn't help thinking that if you didn't have your moustache you'd pass for a-

"Holmes!" Watson blustered. "If this is going to turn into an insult session-

"Hush!" Holmes hissed.

Watson rolled his eyes but didn't object further.

Holmes settled himself against the bars and started again. "You were the most pompous, flustered thing." He said pleasantly, ignoring Watson's grumble. "I was quite fascinated by you. Your mannerisms, your way of speaking and acting and dressing. There was something quite unique about you. Something which had me lying awake at night thinking."

Watson rolled his eyes. Trust Holmes to turn a rather sexually charged encounter into a recount of all his clever observations from years ago. He sighed and began to shimmy down his trousers, wincing as his arousal was released from the confinement.

"Of course my years of solitude and self-restraint blurred my understanding." Holmes said, sounding almost troubled. "I had never experienced such things."

Watson froze. "What things?"

"Sexual arousal." Holmes said as offhandedly as possible, though Watson thought he heard a tremble in his voice. "For you."

"How on earth did I sexually arouse you?" Watson asked, turning. "I didn't do anything but trail about after you like a lovesick puppy."

Holmes smiled as though he looked back fondly on such times. "I don't know. Something in your manner." He paused. "Oh, and I did see you getting out of the bath once."

Watson nodded vaguely, only half listening as he struggled out of his trousers.

"After that I couldn't help but notice your... endowments." Holmes went on serenely, seeming strangely apt at ignoring the arousal that moments before he had insisted was unbearable. "Of course soon-

"Wait a moment." Watson said suddenly, turning to Holmes with a frown. "You spied on me in the bath?"

"No." Holmes replied calmly. "I said I "saw you getting out of the bath _once_ "."

Watson paused, savouring this. Though he didn't want to buy into Holmes's strange verbal kink, he couldn't help but visualise Holmes at the bathroom door, damp with sweat and steam, his shirt sticking to his skin as he watched Watson's own figure within, moving one hand lower on himself-

Watson gave himself a shake. "You're a pervert." He grumbled.

Holmes ignored him. "After that, my body began to... betray me."

Watson pretended to be folding his trousers but he was listening. He couldn't help it. The images that accompanied Holmes's words were explosive.

"I had never known that mere thoughts could control me, make my body move and ache." Holmes's hands tightened around the bars of the bed slightly. "I began to look at you in a different light. I couldn't help myself. I began to wonder... what it would be like to touch you, kiss you. I knew these thoughts were unchaste and wrong. I tried to view women in a similar fashion but I was left cold."

Watson swallowed unsteadily, shifting uncomfortably on the bed.

"I didn't want to give into my desires so easily but... I couldn't stop myself." Watson saw him dampen his lips. "You made me feel..." He inhaled shakily. "Dirty."

Watson gasped. He had forgotten how prominent his erection had become. It gave a protesting throb. It needed tending to. "That's enough." He said, kneeling on the bed and crawling towards Holmes.

Holmes watched him, he didn't remove his hands from bars. "I never touched myself." He said abruptly, as Watson was inches from him.

"What?" Watson said blankly.

"I hadn't ever. Not until recently." Holmes said in a raw voice. "I didn't know how to. It frightened me. I used to fanta-

"Hush." Watson said, silencing Holmes with a kiss.

Holmes sighed. Not entirely from satisfaction though, Watson thought.

He kissed Holmes's neck, feeling him stiffen under him at the contact. He gently suckled on the skin, it tasted like a mixture of soap and tobacco. Holmes threaded his fingers through Watson's hair, gripping it gently. "I used to rub myself sometimes." He said weakly, throwing his head back with a gasp as Watson nipped the skin. "I used to dream it was you. You were so... masculine."

Watson didn't know if he wanted to hear anymore. It was downright odd getting such deep insight into Holmes's sexual thoughts but at the same time, his loins kept giving a thrilled tingle every time Holmes spoke in such a candid and honest manner.

"I wanted you to bend me over the nearest hard surface and fuck me." Holmes all but hissed.

Watson couldn't contain his low groan against Holmes's skin. "Oh, Holmes." He growled.

Holmes put his lips close to Watson's ear, breath hot against his skin. "Use me."

Those words were all Watson needed. He dragged Holmes flat onto his back. Holmes didn't let go of the bars. He spread his legs either side of Watson and Watson paused, admiring his lover's thighs, his now fully erect cock and his tight entrance, begging for attention.

Watson paused. "Oil?"

"On... the dresser." Holmes panted, staring up at the ceiling with a look of desperation on his face.

Watson hastened to get it. It was a new bottle and the stopper hadn't been removed. They had been 'roughing it' of sorts lately but Watson felt he wanted tonight to be as pleasurable for Holmes as possible. He tried to convince himself that it wasn't because he feared this would be their last night together.

He returned to Holmes, removed the stopper with some difficulty and knelt before Holmes, positioning himself between Holmes's legs. He poured the oil onto his fingers. He paused and then poured some gently over Holmes's exposed tightness.

Holmes bucked his hips upward with a gasp.

Watson dipped his fingers into the oil until they were coated and then slowly and gently slid two fingers inside of Holmes.

"Ah!" Holmes spluttered, rolling his hips forward to meet Watson's hand. Watson rested his other on Holmes's thigh, gently stroking him with his fingers.

He released his fingers and put the stopper back in the oil, pushing it to one side. He manoeuvred himself against Holmes, resting Holmes's thighs against his and pressing his cock against Holmes's slick entrance. Holmes cried out frantically, his hands tight around the bars. "Now! Ah! Now!" He sobbed.

Watson held Holmes's thighs tightly and pushed himself inside of his lover. Holmes threw his head back. "Uh! Oh God!" He arched his back against Watson, the bars cutting into his skin he was holding on so tightly.

Watson groaned, closing his eyes as the sensation took hold of him. Holmes was still so tight and so responsive. " _Argh!_ God. Fuck. Holmes." He hissed between thrusts. "Ngh..."

Holmes stared up desperately at the ceiling, his eyes damp. " _Harder_." He moaned.

Watson obliged. He gripped Holmes's thighs firmly and began to move faster and deeper inside of Holmes, groaning every time the heat and dampness engulfed his loins. He could feel Holmes pressing himself against him, trying to take more and more of Watson, hungry for possession. Watson's eyes, screwed up in his ardour, now opened to see Holmes's face.

For a moment he was blinded by the darkness but gradually his eyes became adjusted and he saw his lover's face, flushed and vulnerable in his passion. Watson noticed Holmes's cock had began to leak. He moved one hand from Holmes's leg and took it in hand, gently stroking it in time with his hips.

Holmes whimpered helplessly, throwing a hand down to his own stomach, curling and uncurling his fingers against his skin. "O- _Oh_ ah!" He gasped as Watson's experienced hand tightened around the throbbing appendage. "Watson!" His hand found Watson's wrist.

"Shhh." Watson panted. "It's... alright..." Holmes dropped his hand down, his nails clawing the bed sheets.

Watson took his hand away, knowing it would leave Holmes on the brink of release. Holmes let out a whine but didn't seem able to form words to express his dismay.

Watson moved his hand to Holmes nipples instead, they were hard from the cold. He began caressing them, pinching them gently and enjoying the startled look on Holmes's face as this new brand of pleasure was brought forth. He grazed his nails over them, sometimes digging them into the flesh to cause a sharp flash of pain or else stroking the detective gently to overwhelm him with pleasure.

At the same time he realised that the distraction was slowing his pace and he hastily began to thrust faster. One particularly deep thrust caused a spasm of pleasure throughout his whole form and he heard himself moan though he wasn't entirely aware of it. His hand dropped away from Holmes's body, he gripped his thigh again and his movements became quicker, sharper and less measured.

Holmes was panting visibly, his face damp with perspiration. Watson could feel it on himself. His hair stuck to his forehead, his cheeks felt flushed and red. He found his eyes closed again, his brow knitted against the strain. He could feel the pressure mounting below; he could hear Holmes's whimpers and cries as he neared his own completion.

He returned his hand to Holmes's sex, rubbing it faster now, his fingers sliding clumsily over the aroused flesh. Holmes's hands were both gripping the bars again as though he was afraid he would lose control of himself when Watson brought him over the edge.

"Tell... me... what you... thought... when you... first saw me." Holmes managed to gasp.

Watson licked his dry lips and let out a haggard breath. "I thought... I wanted to... bend you over... the nearest hard... surface and... _ugh!_ " He groaned. " _Fuck you."_

Holmes bucked violently against Watson as he climaxed. He threw his head back again and hit it against the bars but he didn't seem to care. "AH! Yes John!" He cried, surprising Watson with his first name. " _Yes._ "

The result of his ecstasy spurted thickly onto his chest. His eyes fluttered wildly, he looked stricken with pleasure.

The sight of Holmes's orgasm brought Watson to his close behind. He felt his seed rush forth, felt it pour hotly into Holmes, coating his thighs. He swore viciously, thrusting once more into Holmes and feeling his eyes rise upward on their own accord.

Watson felt soaked with sweat and... other fluids. His chest was heaving, as was Holmes's as he lay perfectly still on the bed, his eyes closed and his hands limp above his head.

Holmes's left leg had somehow found its way onto Watson's shoulder in a position that Watson thought couldn't possibly be comfortable. He gently pulled himself out of Holmes and shifted backwards, lying Holmes's legs back down. Holmes didn't move but he opened his eyes, peering at Watson with drowsy satisfaction.

Watson crawled up and lay beside Holmes, still feeling too sticky and hot to touch him but close enough that he could admire Holmes's ruffled hair and pink cheeks. "Are you alright?" He said tenderly.

Holmes smiled. "Of course, my dear Watson."

Watson noted the return of his last name. "Did it live up to your fantasy?" He yawned lying his head down on the pillow.

"What fantasy?" Holmes asked blankly.

Watson rolled his eyes. "Weren't you telling me all about your sordid little fantasies before? Wanting to be "fucked over a table" or something alike to it."

Holmes stared at him for a moment and then laughed. "My dear Watson." He said amusedly. "Surely you realise I only said those things to... intensify your arousal?"

Watson blinked. "I..." He broke off, feeling foolish.

"I was perfectly disinterested in you." Holmes said proudly. "I thought you rather dull actually."

"Oh. Thanks so much." Watson said, stung.

"It wasn't until you showed me the depth of your compassion, loyalty, intelligence and kindness that I began to realise the complicated feelings I held for you." Holmes said gently, turning onto his side and looking close at Watson's face. "You're more than just a pretty face, Watson."

Watson leant forward and kissed him. "I thank you for that."


	18. Schemes and Cigarettes

When Watson awoke, the sun was only just beginning to rise and Holmes was nestled in his arms under the covers, his warm form an effective defence against the early morning cold. Watson had slept very well. He felt almost guilty that when he had closed his eyes soon after making love to Holmes he had fallen almost effortlessly to sleep. His usual nights of tumultuous tossing and turning, haunted by anxieties seemed like distant, unpleasant memories as he lay there, warm and content with a vague ache around his loins from the previous night's exertions.

He wondered what had roused him from his steady slumber. Perhaps it was the ever-present feeling that he was supposed to be somewhere else, with someone else. His body had probably began to program itself to recount mornings when, as soon as the sun was up, he had thrown back the covers, hastily dressed and hurried home to Mary.

Not today. He was staying with Holmes. He was going to do what he should have done long before now: he was going to put Holmes before himself.

He looked down at Holmes's sleeping form. His upturned face was peaceful and undisturbed by waking concerns. He looked calm and untroubled, his lips slightly parted, a slight snuffle emitting every time he exhaled. Watson smiled and gently threaded his fingers through the detective's soft, tangled hair. Holmes's eyelids flickered but he did not awaken.

Watson closed his own eyes again and let his hand slip from Holmes's head to the small of his back.

He felt that this was a rare moment of bliss for him. Holmes was soft and warm in his arms and he felt far, far away from the concerns of his disintegrating marriage. In spite of everything, he was happy. He couldn't help it. He wasn't often happy. He had come to expect that it was merely a temporary luxury. For one such as him happiness could never be constant. He worried and cared too deeply about too many things.

And unfortunately, as always, this spate of happiness was not to last forever.

**oOo**

"Well, good morning." Holmes said crisply, peering over the top of his newspaper at Watson's bedraggled figure in the bedroom doorway.

Watson stifled a yarn and stretched, not bothering to hold down the hem of his only garment- Holmes's shirt. He couldn't find his own. He had found his trousers in a twisted knot under the bed with his underwear.

Holmes cocked his head slightly at the sight of Watson's shapely upper legs- and other upper bits too- under the slip of his cotton shirt. It barely covered anything; the material was too fine. He could see his nipples underneath, hard with the cold.

"Did you sleep well?" Holmes asked nonchalantly, trying to ignore the way his voice went up an octave at the sight of Watson's tanned thighs.

"Rather." Watson replied, sliding into the chair opposite Holmes.

Holmes flattened his newspaper on the tabletop and studied Watson's face. "You're not wearing hardly any clothes." He noted.

They both knew that this wasn't a simple observation. Watson had not lingered so long in Holmes's abode for a very long time, he hadn't dared to. Holmes knew it was dangerous to let his heart rise so rapidly and hopefully in his chest at this simple and unusual occurrence, but Watson was usually so businesslike in his behaviour on mornings after they slept together. He would dress and hurry out the door before Holmes had time to catch his breath, but he was lingering this morning. The way he wore Holmes's shirt, poached the newspaper to read, didn't even glance at the clock and _whistled_ was all too encouraging. It made Holmes swell with hope that Watson was thinking of Baker Street as his home again.

Watson cleared his throat, and shook the newspaper straight. "Observant as always, Holmes."

"Don't you have somewhere you need to be?" Holmes asked pointedly, watching Watson closely and waiting with baited breath to see if he had hoped too soon.

Watson glanced at him. "No. Do you?"

Holmes raised one eyebrow. "No."

Watson raised both eyebrows. "Good." He went back to his newspaper.

Holmes leant on his elbows, gazing at Watson. "Will Mary wonder where you are?"

Watson abruptly closed and folded the newspaper, dropping it on the table with a dull thud. "I thoroughly doubt it." He said dryly. "I'd say she has a fairly good idea of where I am by now, don't you?"

Holmes frowned. "Indeed."

There was silence. Holmes licked his lips uncertainly, shifting slightly in his seat. He wanted to ask Watson what they were going to do about Mary. It had been niggling at him since Mary had accosted him the evening before. He felt threatened by her. Not for Watson's love. He knew Watson no longer loved his wife, but he felt that she could pose serious problems if Watson didn't do something soon. He didn't trust her, no matter what Watson thought. No matter how honourable and loyal he thought her, Holmes did not trust her. And with good cause. She had been hurt. She was volatile. Her night-time visit to Baker Street proved that.

"Watson," Holmes began uncertainly. "Have you decided what to do about... Mary?"

Watson did not reply immediately. He was staring at the folded newspaper, his brow furrowed as though Holmes had reminded him of something unpleasant and bothersome. "No." He replied at length.

He said nothing more and Holmes was far from comforted. "Really, Watson. I don't wish to pressure you, I know it's a delicate situation but you can't possibly just expect her to dissolve into thin air." He privately wished it was possible.

"I know." Watson said, looking up at Holmes. "I know you're worried. I am too. But I have to admit..." He hesitated. "I don't really know... what to do."

Holmes knew it was difficult for Watson to confess such a thing to Holmes; he hated feeling as though he couldn't handle things. He hated feeling as though he was relying on Holmes to make everything better for him.

Holmes smiled slightly. "It is delicate." He said carefully, not wishing to sound as though he was plying Watson with unwanted advice. "You will not divorce her?"

"For the final time, Holmes, _no_." Watson said exasperatedly.

"Yes, yes." Holmes said hastily. "I was merely confirming it. Besides, there are other... methods to deal with her."

"Such as what?" Watson asked suspiciously.

"Men send their wives away to the country yearly under the pretence of protecting them from the summer heat." He said matter-of-factly.

"Indeed. I am aware of the fact, Holmes. I have resided in London some time now." Watson replied, massaging his forehead with one hand as though he had a sudden migraine.

Holmes was silent, waiting for Watson to understand his meaning. When the doctor remained silent, he tutted impatiently. "Really, Watson! Are you so obtuse? Do you not see what I am suggesting to you?"

Watson dropped his hand onto the table top, looking irritated. "I know perfectly well what you mean. I am not an entire imbecile." He said crossly. "But I believe that it is a perfectly _obtuse_ idea as Mary knows no one in the country and I have not the money, nor the connections to secure such a position for her!"

Holmes tutted at him again. "But I do. Do you forget that I have a brother?"

Watson was silent for a moment. "I don't believe that proper." He said stiffly.

Holmes raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You are partaking in buggery almost nightly while your cuckolded wife lies alone in a neglected marital bed." He said flatly. "Do you not see that as being even slightly improper?"

Watson fixed him with a withering look. "And it is a miracle, if not a blessing that we have not been discovered by anyone else. Do you not think it would look odd if I was to permanently send my wife away to live with your brother while I return to live in Baker Street?"

Holmes had to admit that he did have a point. It would look odd. "Ah." He said, feeling put out. "It may be so."

"Is there not some other way?" Watson asked, an almost desperate tone to his voice.

"None of which you will approve of." Holmes replied coolly.

"Do you have a cigarette?" Watson asked.

"On the vanity." Holmes replied distractedly, staring furrow browed at the table, deep in thought.

Watson stood up to fetch it. Holmes was treated to a second helping of Watson's bare legs but he watched with less interest as Watson limped to the bedroom to fetch the cigarettes.

Holmes rifled through the newspaper without really taking notice of what he was reading. He wanted to discover the answer to the puzzle, this impossible puzzle. He wanted to produce the perfect solution and have Watson adore him for it. But nothing came to him. Not this time. Watson's integrity posed an obstacle that threatened to completely undo them.

He was staring aimlessly at the sensational heading of some ridiculous story about a man who had fled to Paris to avoid paying his taxes when Watson reappeared in the doorway looking like sex personified with his cigarette perched pertly between his lips, his hair still deliciously unkempt and still sporting Holmes's wrinkled shirt. Holmes ran his eyes over the doctor, feeling a pulse of arousal throb through his crotch despite his frustration.

"You should get dressed." Holmes said weakly as Watson returned to the table.

Watson exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke across the table. "You're one to speak." He said, nodding at Holmes's faded, frayed dressing gown.

"That's different." Holmes said weakly. "This is my usual home attire, that's... a shirt."

"Oh, Holmes. Am I offending your tender principles?" Watson teased, in a strangely un-Watsonlike manner for reasons Holmes could only wonder at.

"By all means, remain in your present state of undress." Holmes replied calmly. "I am enjoying the view."

"As am I." Watson replied, smiling.

Holmes glanced down at his frumpy attire. He looked at Watson blankly. "You are?"

"Who couldn't enjoy you when you're blushing like a schoolgirl and practically begging to be taught a lesson?" Watson teased him.

Holmes swallowed, the room was getting hotter or else he was getting a fever as he sat there. "Watson, this is a serious conversation. Can you think with your head for one moment and not your... nether regions?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "You're never satisfied. I'm a prude, I'm obtuse, I'm a rake who can't control his sexual urges." He said it playfully but Holmes looked slightly affronted.

"I'm trying to address something which could effectively destroy us." He said coldly. "I need you to understand how deeply concerned I am about this."

Watson frowned, studying Holmes's pale face. "My God. Are you really that concerned?" He reached out his hand to Holmes's hand, threading his fingers through the detective's.

Holmes's fingers curved into Watson's hand, in spite of himself. "It's all your fault." He sniffed miserably. "If you hadn't gone and gotten yourself married, we wouldn't have this problem."

Watson gently stroked him. "It'll be alright."

Holmes felt a pang of annoyance and snatched his hand back. "You keep saying that." He snapped. "But I fail to see what-what- what..." He trailed off into silence. He was staring at the newspaper, his face strangely blank.

"What's wrong?" Watson asked. "Holmes?"

Holmes picked up the paper, his eyes wide eyes. "This is it, Watson." He said.

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Pardon me?"

"This is _it_!" Holmes said excitedly, shoving the newspaper at Watson. "The answer to our problems."

Watson ran his eyes down the page. "Tax avoidance?"

"No, you fool." Holmes said impatiently. "Paris."

Watson stared at him blankly, as though the word was as foreign to him as the country. "Paris?"

"Oui, Paris." Holmes said, his eyes glinting the way they did when the pieces of a case suddenly fell together.

Watson remained looking blank. Holmes rolled his eyes and snatched the newspaper back. "Even you, Watson, are not _that_ dense." He snapped. "Surely, you see my meaning."

"I am still hoping that you have gone temporarily insane." Watson said bluntly.

"Don't you see how perfect it could be?" Holmes demanded, brandishing the newspaper almost aggressively at Watson. "This could solve everything!"

"Oh, please." Watson said, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "Don't tease me with your ridiculous fantasy."

"Why does it have to be a fantasy?" Holmes said, slamming the newspaper down. "It's possible. At the least, it's possible!"

Watson shook his head. "No. It's not. I have a practise here, I have a home. You have your work. Do you think the French police will be as accommodating to your... unusual abilities as the London police have been?"

Holmes hesitated. "I'll get along."

Watson laughed humourlessly. "No. You'll go mad within days. Being shut out of the law system and denied the luxury of meddling would send you round the bend."

Holmes sniffed. "Perhaps. But I will go equally 'round the bend' if we remain in London and we have to live forever with the fear that Mary will destroy us."

"She won't." Watson said staunchly.

Holmes fixed him with an icy look. "Would you, for once in your life, stop being such an insufferable gentleman and open that naive mind of yours?"

Watson was silent for a moment. He didn't want to believe Mary capable of hurting him but he hadn't thought her capable of saying half the things she had over the past few days. "You believe she will betray me?" He asked quietly.

"I believe she will betray _us_." Holmes replied dryly. "She despises me. Quite thoroughly. I believe that she believes that I have weaved some dangerous spell over you, compelling you into your current life of _sin_."

"She despises me just as intensely." Watson protested. "If not more."

"No." Holmes said. "She still has some regard for you. Even if she hides it well under her facade of disgust. I believe her hurt is deeper than her anger."

Watson shook his head. "You didn't hear her speak to me. Any regard she once had for me is quite done away with."

"And _you_ didn't hear the way she spoke to me last night when she came to beg for me to leave you be." Holmes replied wryly. "She did not speak as though she despised you."

"Then why do you believe she will be disloyal to me?" Watson asked.

"She will do it to hurt me." Holmes said calmly. "She will do it to punish me and if my downfall causes yours then I predict that she will see that she did everything she could to protect you and you brought it upon yourself."

Watson shook his head furiously. "No, no. I don't believe it-

" _Begin_ believing it." Holmes said aggressively, clutching Watson's wrists roughly across the table. "She _will_ turn us in. It's only a matter of time."

Watson didn't move. He stared at Holmes, feeling slightly lightheaded. He had gone papery white. Holmes could see that for the first time he was beginning to realise that his loyal, biddable wife could truly be their downfall. "You really believe this?"

"I know it." Holmes said firmly, not releasing Watson from his grip. "If we do not leave London, we're as good as imprisoned. If not dead."

"I don't know if I can." Watson said weakly, swallowing. "Paris... it's so far."

"It'll be romantic." Holmes said coaxingly, stroking the inside of Watson's wrists with his thumbs.

"It's not supposed to be a holiday." Watson grumbled, though Holmes could see goose bumps beginning to appear on his arms. "We'll be on the run from the law for God's sake."

"Mmm. It'll be exciting." Holmes smirked, Watson knew he was just saying all this to convince him but he had to admit- it was working. He trusted Holmes.

"The French?" He said doubtfully.

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a bigot."

"Oh, pardon me for holding seven hundred years of open hostility against them." Watson said irritably, shaking Holmes's hands off of him.

"But you agree." Holmes pressed him. "You will come to Paris with me."

Watson stared at his hands. Holmes saw him bite his lip. "I don't know." He said hesitantly.

Holmes suddenly realised he was balanced on the edge of his chair. In fact he was almost on top of the table in his eagerness. He desperately needed Watson to say yes. Just this once he wanted to be the rescuer. He wanted to take Watson away from his unhappiness in London to a new life, a new start. All Watson had to do was say yes.

Holmes wanted to say something that would make him agree but he was terrified that if he pushed the issue too aggressively Watson would rebuff him. So he just hovered over the table and hardly dared to breathe.

"I really don't know, Holmes." Watson said tiredly. "It seems so rash. And what are we to do for money? I can't speak French-

"Je peux." Holmes interjected helpfully.

Watson remained unconvinced. "And what about somewhere to live? Oh, it's ridiculous." He shook his head again as though trying to disperse the cloud of doubt hanging over him. "We can't possibly." He put out his cigarette and dropped it onto the table.

Watson lowered his eyes, still gnawing on his bottom lip. He suddenly felt very exposed and foolish in Holmes's shirt. He stared fixedly at a knife mark in the wood, not wanting to meet Holmes's eye. He could feel the detective's gaze on him.

Suddenly he heard a screech of wood on wood and he started back to find Holmes's brown eyes inches from his face. Holmes was on all fours on top of the table, his brow furrowed as he examined Watson's face closely.

"Holmes!" Watson spluttered, jerking back in his chair and gifting Holmes with another eyeful of his unclad lower half.

He hastily sat forward, his cheeks burning. "Holmes." He said, flustered. "What are you-

Holmes pressed his fingers to Watson's lips, silencing him. "I think you're just frightened." He said frankly, his eyes shrewd. "I know you want to do what's best for Mary." He paused, lowering his fingertips to Watson's chin, caressing him and revelling in the way Watson's eyes grew cloudy with pleasure. "But the best thing you can do is just _disappear_. Let her go on with her life without the pain of having you there as a constant reminder. Come with me." He pressed his lips to Watson's. Watson returned the kiss hungrily, Holmes felt his hands touch his waist. "Come to Paris with me." He mumbled against Watson's mouth.

Watson remained silent. Holmes could sense he was still thinking. He was still weighing up, considering, measuring, deliberating. He was torn as usual between what he wanted and what he thought was right. He was consumed by doubt. Holmes wished he could soothe him. He broke apart a little from Watson's lips and moved his hand slowly under Watson's shirt, trailing his way down to the doctor's flaccid manhood. He stroked his fingers along it.

"Holmes..." Watson breathed, unable to stop a little gasp escaping as Holmes began to massage him up and down his awakening length. "Holmes-guh- He rolled his hips forward and Holmes managed to take a grip around him, rubbing the hardening appendage firmly with his palm.

"Oh, you bad boy." Holmes said in a low voice. "Does running away arouse you, Watson?" He ran his tongue along Watson's bottom lip and watched the doctor squirm with discomfort and arousal. "Does the idea of being a fugitive make you hard?" He almost hissed the last words and Watson couldn't constrain a moan as Holmes began to roll the damp head of his now fully erect sex between his fingers.

"You're such a dirty, depraved boy." Holmes smirked. "Getting all excited over breaking the law." He ran his fingernails up the underside of Watson's cock. Watson all but whimpered. "Letting such naughty things turn you on."

Watson didn't reply. His grip had become very tight on Holmes's waist. Suddenly, without warning, he pushed Holmes back across the table. Holmes's hand was yanked from Watson's privates and he found himself deposited firmly on his back. The next moment Watson was over him, not attempting to hide himself now. The shirt was around his waist, his cock was full and damp. He kissed Holmes forcefully, breaking his way into the moist warmth. Holmes's hands seemed to find their way around Watson's shoulders on their own accord. Watson pressed himself fully against Holmes and they both let out a mutual groan at the contact.

Until now Holmes hadn't noticed how present his own arousal had become.

Watson paused, sitting up on Holmes's hips. He clumsily undid the buttons on his shirt and deposited it on the floor. Then he moved to Holmes's robe, yanking it open. He stopped short. Holmes wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"Holmes!" He said, scandalized.

"I was just being prepared." Holmes said innocently, pulling Watson down to kiss him again.

"Now who's naughty?" Watson growled into Holmes's lips.

In response Holmes spread his legs either side of Watson and rubbed himself hard against him. Watson let out a strangled moan. "Stop that." He gasped.

Holmes smirked widely and, opening his legs a bit wider, rubbed again. This time more forcefully. Watson threw his head back with a grunt, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. "Why, Watson." Holmes said slyly. "You're nothing more than a common slut. Growing damp at the slightest touch."

Watson swooped back down over Holmes, glaring at the detective's affectedly innocent face.

"Keep that up and I'll ensure you don't walk for a week." He snarled into his ear. Holmes shivered all over, goose bumps appearing on his neck where Watson's breath had fallen.

Watson yanked Holmes's legs further apart and hastily dampened his fingers with his own saliva. He slid down onto his feet against the table and admired Holmes in his current position, legs sprawled apart and his pink entrance begging for attention. With a smirk he buried his fingers deep inside Holmes and relished the breathless moan it extracted from him. The detective arched his back as Watson worked his fingers in and out. His cheeks were bright pink and his hands were either side of him on the table, nails embedded in the wood.

When Watson was finished he clambered back over Holmes, pressing his cock against Holmes's opening.

He felt Holmes's hand on his chest, clawing at him almost desperately. "Do it." Holmes whimpered. "Take me. Please, Watson. Take me now."

Watson almost hesitated. He stared at Holmes's flushed face below him, his eyes wide and his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then he nodded and pushed himself gently inside of Holmes. Holmes cried out, his nails dug into Watson's skin. "Ah! Watson! Tell me! Tell me you'll... _uh_ \- come to Paris w-with me-ah!"

Watson began to move faster, pinning Holmes's thighs tightly against him as he thrust harder into Holmes's welcoming heat. Holmes writhed on his back, his hands collapsing beside him again and his eyes growing dark with intense pleasure. Watson doubted he could have spoken now, not while he was being impaled on Watson's cock at such a forceful rate.

"I'll come to Paris with you." Watson said hoarsely, hardly able to articulate the words. "I will."

Holmes let out a helpless whimper and threw his head back. "Uh. Yes, yes, yes."

Watson noted that it did not take much effort on his behalf that morning to bring Sherlock Holmes to orgasm. Twice.

**oOo**

"How do I look?" Watson appeared in the doorway, dressed hurriedly in a mix of the clothes he could find of his and some of Holmes's he had borrowed.

Holmes glanced up from the table. He was still sprawled out on his back, completely naked except for his dressing gown underneath him and smoking a cigarette. "Like you've just had marvellous sex with your sodomitical lover on a kitchen table." He said mildly.

"Marvellous, eh?" Watson said wryly, trying to flatten his ruffled hair. "You're welcome."

Holmes sat up with difficulty. "No _you're_ welcome." He replied promptly. "You've finally learnt to act sensibly rather than honourably."

Watson shrugged offhandedly. "I don't know what you mean."

"Even you, sensible and boring as you are," Holmes said critically. "Must see the benefits in making leave of the country? In living in Paris?"

"I'm sure the food is lovely." Watson said obtusely.

Holmes rolled his eyes. "You do see it though don't you?" He pressed.

"Yes, Holmes, yes." Watson said. "I do."

"And you do want to come away with me, don't you?" Holmes asked.

Watson walked over to the edge of the table and stroked Holmes's chin. "There is nothing more I want than to be with you." He said. "In London. In Paris. In Australia. I love you."

He dropped his hand from Holmes's chin and went to find his coat.

Holmes blushed, suddenly becoming very interested in his cigarette. "Well. Yes. That is... very... very sensible." He said stiffly, flushing bright pink with pleasure at Watson's words.

Watson pulled his coat on and turned once more to Holmes. "Good bye, Holmes." He said heavily. "Before we go to Paris, I have much to prepare and tend to. Not least my patients. I'll be back tonight. I promise."

Holmes nodded and watched the doctor disappear out the door. He heard his footsteps fade away down the hallway. He lay back down on the table, staring contentedly up at the ceiling. For the first time in a long time, he trusted Watson to keep that promise.


	19. One Little Lie

When Watson arrived home, he found he was whistling. He never whistled. He found it an irritating and vulgar habit, naturally favoured by Holmes amongst others. But he felt light, he felt happy and he couldn't wait to find Mary and tell her of his solution. He felt that he had been spurred into action by Holmes's fervent scheming. He no longer felt he was aboard a sinking ship with no lifeboat.

He couldn't help but look forward to telling his wife of his plan. He knew it was immature but he wanted to show her that he was not yet completely at her mercy. He had done a dishonourable thing and hurt both Mary and Holmes in the process but he wanted happiness. People had done worse than he had done. He hadn't killed anyone or done irreversible damage to anyone, he had just fallen in love with another man. Did that then mean he deserved to never be happy? He wanted desperately to think that he deserved this chance at happiness with Holmes. He wished he could neutralize the toxic guilt in his gut.

Watson stood outside the drawing room, almost frightened to turn the knob. His wife was just beyond this door. There was so much he wanted to say to her. He had to keep his temper. He had to control himself. Escape was the most important thing at this moment in time, not getting his revenge on Mary for hurting Holmes.

He took a deep breath and went in. The door creaked, betraying him immediately. Mary was sitting in the same chair he had left her in all those weeks ago when he'd told her 'not to wait up'. How things had changed. His silly little love affair had become something so much more dangerous.

She was sewing something. When he entered, she looked up briefly from what she was doing and then lowered her eyes. She didn't speak and her expression didn't alter in the slightest. She continued sewing, her fingers steady around the needle. It was as though Watson wasn't even there.

Watson closed the door behind him. He watched her sew for a few moments, rolling the words he wanted to say around in his mouth. He didn't think it was a time for rhetoric so he went straight, courageously to the blunt truth: "I'm leaving." He paused as her eyes flickered up from her work. "With Holmes."

Her hands were frozen in mid-air. She stared at him, blank faced and cold. It was almost like she hadn't heard him, but Watson knew she had.

He cleared his throat and walked along to the chair opposite hers, leaning on the back and avoiding her eye. "We've decided we're going abroad." He examined the cigarette between his fingers without really seeing it. "Holmes's idea. I believe it would be desirable for all three of us if a little space was sought."

Mary still did not speak, she returned to her sewing, eyes sliding back down to her lap. Watson gazed at her, wondering at her strange behaviour. He took heart in her silence and ventured on. "I think that it would give us all the time we need to reflect on this unfortunate situation." He knew he was beginning to sound like politician trying to backpedal out of some badly thought out policy but he didn't want to admit point blank that it was because he wanted to get as far away from her as possible. "I will make the necessary arrangements. I will make sure everyone knows of my impromptu journey and that no suspicions are held of you or myself. I will ensure that you are above reproach and you are free to enjoy society and the company of as many other men as you wish." He was bargaining with her now. He was asking her to sin so he could justify his own sin. But he needed her to concur. He needed her to tell him that she would keep her mouth shut so he could escape with Holmes. Nothing else mattered.

As usual the balance of his entire world depended on her loyalty and so far she had not spoken or even made any sign that she had heard a single word he'd said. She was still sewing, she was still staring at her own lap, she was still acting as though he were not present. He felt a shiver of irritation pulse through his whole body. He gripped the edge of the seat tightly, feeling some of the tobacco in his unlit cigarette burst between his fingers. "Mary. Are you listening to me? Do you agree or not? Speak up for God's sake."

Mary still did not speak.

"This is ridiculous." Watson snarled, standing up straight and angrily shaking off his coat. "I understand that you're hurt but acting like this. Threatening Holmes and refusing to speak to me. It won't make anything better. Just tell me you'll let me go. I know I don't deserve another chance but please just let me go." He hadn't wanted to plead with her but if she had one shred of regard for him left in her heart, he had to find it. "Speak to me!" He burst out furiously, as she still remained silent and stone-faced in her seat. "Tell me I'm a pig! Swear at me! Don't just _sit_ there like a statue and-

"I'm pregnant."

Watson's words died on his tongue. He felt like the breath was sucked from his body. For a moment everything stopped around him. Time stood still and he was falling, tumbling through the air. He felt himself lurch and a moment later everything snapped back into focus. He had somehow fallen against the chair. He had collapsed or perhaps he'd fainted.

He slowly stood up, feeling winded. "What?" He said, without being aware of speaking.

Mary hadn't moved, she was surveying him closely. "I'm pregnant." She repeated, and went back to her knitting.

"But... that can't be possible." Watson said in a trembling voice. "You...we... I don't understand how..."

"You're a doctor, John. I'm sure you'll figure it out." Mary said nastily.

"You told me you were ovulating. Not two weeks ago! That's what you said!" Watson burst out angrily. "You're lying. You're lying to me."

Mary paused, finally looking him directly in the eye. She had strange look on her face. Something between pity and disdain. "It's terrible what one little lie can do, isn't it?"

Watson felt sick. He had to get out of the drawing room. He had to get away from her. He staggered to his feet and burst through the door. He ran from her, down the hall and down the stairs to the bathroom. He threw himself inside and fell over the sink, retching uncontrollably into it.

Bile came in hot rivers from his throat. The taste was bitter and stale.

When he had brought up as much as his abused body could take he slid down by the sink, the vomit damp on his lips and on his shirt collar. The tears came soon after.


	20. His Doing

Watson sat against the sink, taking unsteady deep breaths. His mouth tasted like vomit and his throat throbbed from crying. In the aftermath of his anguish, he felt almost bashful that he had acted so violently to Mary's pregnancy. He thought it could have been a result of the weeks of endless mental anxiety. This had been the last straw. His body and his mind couldn't take the pressure.

He didn't know if he trusted Mary's word. She could easily have been lying to him. He had no reason to trust her and she had no reason to tell him the truth. It was a catch-22.

But he knew what he had to do. He had made his mind up while sitting in the cold and damp of the bathroom. He had to go and see Holmes. For what he intended to be the final time.

**oOo**

He walked past the drawing room. The door was ajar and Mary hadn't moved from her place in her chair. He hesitated near the open door, wondering what he could say to her. What more was there to say? He wished he could hate her for what she was doing to him and Holmes but he understood why she did what she did and it made it deeply difficult to distance himself from her pain.

He bowed his head and walked past without a word. Their relationship was too damaged to be mended now. They had successfully made each other truly unhappy.

He hadn't rehearsed what he was going to say to Holmes. He didn't think he could bear it. The pain was too raw.

He ascended to Holmes's domain and knocked upon the door as he had hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. The thought that this could be the last time that he touched this door, heard Holmes's footsteps from within, smelt his pipe and laid eyes on his lover was agonizing.

"I say," Holmes said, through the stem of his pipe. "You're back rather promptly. Couldn't keep away, could you?"

He stepped back from the door to let Watson inside. Watson hesitated and then stepped over the threshold.

Holmes was still dressed in his patched, dirty dressing gown but he'd at least put on a pair of trousers underneath. Watson stood by the door and watched his friend pad around his domain, smoking and whistling. Watson twisted his hat between his hands and didn't move.

"I've been thinking it'd be better to leave for France sooner than later," Holmes said over his shoulder. "No use delaying it. The sooner we get out of London, the better. Don't you think-

He turned and saw Watson's face. "What on earth's the matter? You look positively ill." He wandered over, staring at Watson's flushed, damp face.

Watson turned on his heel and moved away, not wanting Holmes to smell the vomit on him.

"Holmes- He began uncertainly.

"If you're feeling unwell, we can delay it a few days." Holmes said from behind him. "Perhaps a week. I don't want to rush you of course."

"Holmes..."

"And of course there's accommodation to organize and packing."

"Holmes-

"Not to mention the ferry. I do hope there's a calm sea, I get dreadfully seasick if there's even the slightest wind. Dramatic I know but my stomach seems to have a mind of its own-

" _Holmes_." Watson said exasperatedly, turning towards him.

Holmes blinked. "Forgive me, Watson. I let myself get quite carried away."

Watson exhaled deeply and pressed a hand to his clammy forehead. "I have something to tell you."

"Oh?" Holmes was suddenly alert, eyebrows raised.

Watson dropped his hand down, staring at Holmes. "I..." He faltered, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He felt sick again. "Holmes..." He said weakly.

"My dear fellow. What on earth is the matter?" Holmes said sharply, striding forward and taking Watson's chin forcefully so he could stare at his face. "You don't look at all well." He sniffed. "Have you been sick? My God, you don't have food poisoning do you-

Watson yanked his chin from Holmes's grip with a frustrated tut. "Will you listen to me for one damned minute?" He snapped, more pained than angry.

Holmes fell silent, looking stung. "I'm sorry. I was merely concerned." He said stiffly.

Watson sighed; he could feel the cold sweat on his skin. "I have to sit down." He said tiredly.

He lumbered back to an armchair and collapsed into it, dabbing at his forehead. Holmes watched him, frowning. "You're ill." He said dryly. "Let me make you some tea-

"Holmes, listen." Watson said heavily, cradling his forehead with one hand. "I can't go to Paris with you." He hesitated. "I'm not going to Paris with you."

Holmes stared at him, eyes strangely blank. He didn't speak or move. Watson could tell that behind his cool eyes, the disappointment was sinking slowly in.

Watson rubbed his forehead. "I'm so sorry. I don't mean to hurt you. I never mean to hurt you..." He shook his head and dropped his hand into his lap. He felt tired and emotionally exhausted. He had failed Holmes, he had failed Mary. There was nothing left. Just the bitter bile in his mouth.

"What's wrong?" Holmes asked calmly, carefully avoiding betraying his obvious anger. "What's happened?"

Watson twisted his hands in his lap. "Mary's..." He faltered. The word itself made his stomach writhe. He inhaled deeply. "Mary is pregnant."

He had said it. The world didn't stop. The house didn't collapse. But it still felt terrible to say something that he knew would break Holmes's heart.

The expression that came across Holmes's face was agonizing to watch. Slowly, gradually a look of total disbelief ebbed across his features. Watson dug his nails into the arms of his chair, wishing he could look away but forcing himself to stare into the face of his lover.

"Pregnant?" Holmes repeated hollowly.

"I... I don't know what to say, Holmes." Watson said in a small voice, slowly standing upright.

Holmes continued staring at him, his face blank. "You... you were sleeping with her?" He said at length.

Watson blinked. Of all the things he had expected Holmes to say, that was the last. "Wh-what?" He stammered.

Holmes's face was stony. "You were sleeping with her." It sounded more like a statement than a question now. Holmes's voice was pulsing with anger. Watson could hear it. His heart fluttered. "You were sleeping with her. And me. With us both." Holmes's voice shook.

"Holmes..." Watson said uncertainly. "I... She's my wife-

Watson was cut off by Holmes's fist coming abruptly into contact with his jaw. His head was thrown back and pain erupted through his cheeks. He gripped his face, stunned into silence.

Holmes gripped his fist and rubbed it, his chest heaving visibly. He turned away from Watson. "I think you should leave." He said curtly.

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, squeezing his swollen jaw.

Holmes rounded on him. Watson had never seen him so angry, his eyes flashed. "If you don't leave, I may do something I will regret."

Watson didn't move. "Holmes, you have to listen to me." He hissed, hand still pressed to his throbbing jaw. "I love you. I love you, but I can't do this. I can't abandon my wife."

"Get out." Holmes snarled, his nails curling into the flushed skin of his damaged knuckles. "I can't stand listening to you a moment longer. Get out. Leave me alone."

Watson knew Holmes was speaking out of anger and intense hurt but his words still smarted. This could be the last time he spoke to Holmes and he was desperate to make Holmes understand. "Holmes." He said pleadingly, aching to take Holmes in his arms but not daring to. "I know I've failed you. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"You've got everything a man could ever want." Holmes said poisonously. "A wife, a child. I was so _stupid_ to think you would actually leave her. I feel like such an imbecile." He turned his back on Watson, shuddering with anger. "Letting you use me like some sort of whore while you slept with her at the same time. I was so bloody _blind_."

"No, Holmes." Watson said desperately, moving closer to him. "I love you. I still do. You have to believe me that nothing I ever did or said was a lie-

"Why should I believe you?" Holmes spat, turning back to him. "You've done nothing but use me. I want you to leave. At least have the decency to leave me in peace."

Watson stayed silent. He could see the dampness gathering in the rim of Holmes's dark eyes, threatening to spill over. Watson was reminded of something he had read that had claimed that crying was humanity's method of handling intense internal pain, of stemming off what it couldn't suppress. To think that Holmes's heart was hurting so much that the pain was pouring like blood from a wound down his cheeks filled Watson with poisonous, unbearable guilt.

"Okay, Holmes." He said quietly. "I'll leave."

"Words don't mean a thing anymore." Holmes mumbled, staring stonily past him. "Not now. Everything's over. It's all over."

Watson felt like the blood was drained from his body. It was over. It was all over. He hadn't even had to say it; Holmes had done it for him.

He turned for the door. Every step made his heart pang. It took every ounce of his strength and courage not to turn and take Holmes into his arms and beg him to forgive him.

By the time he was half way home, he was beginning to question whether it had really been courage or yet another act of cowardice.

**oOo**

Watson stalked towards the drawing room, unable to think through the white noise that seemed to muffle all rational thought in his mind. He threw open the doors and saw his wife where she always was, sitting in her chair.

He closed the door behind him, hands shaking and brow still damp with sweat. He was still covered in his own vomit but he wasn't going to walk away from this moment.

"I hope you're happy now." He began, voice shaking with suppressed fury. "You've taken everything from me."

Mary looked taken aback. "John, you look terrible. Sit down, I'll call for the maid-

"I don't want your damned pity." Watson snarled, curling his fists. His jaw gave a throb of pain. "I know I deserve to suffer, but will you continue to punish me until my dying day? I've lost Holmes, there's no greater pain you can inflict on me."

Suddenly, he saw pain flash across her eyes. Her eyes which had been so blank and emotionless in days past. She shook her head. "I don't want to cause you pain, John." Her lip trembled slightly. "I've been angry. God, can you blame me for being angry? But I would never have betrayed you."

"I don't believe you." Watson snarled. "You've hated Holmes since the beginning-

"Of course I hate him!" Mary burst out shrilly. "Can't you see what he's done to you? To us? We could have been happy! But he had to take you away from me-

"I love him!" Watson spat at her. "I know you can't understand that. You can't love anything. You're so cold, so bitter. You revel in my misery."

He turned to leave. He heard her get hastily to her feet. "John! John, please don't leave me! I love you! John! Please!"

Her words echoed down the hallway, echoed in his mind. Watson didn't turn back. He was done with her. He was done with everything. His life was ended and he saw only darkness before him. And he knew it was his doing. Everything was his doing.


	21. Anything

"You fool," Watson stared at his own reflection in the vanity mirror. He saw a man who had lost weight, whose complexion had become grey and pale. The past weeks had taken their toll on him physically but more than anything they had taken their toll on him mentally. "You utter fool. Look what you've done."

He plunged his hands into the basin below and swept it across his face. He gasped breathlessly. The water was ice cold. He pushed his hair back from his face, blinking at his sodden face in the mirror. The water clung to his moustache, dripping down between his lips.

He undressed. He had still been wearing his vomit covered clothes. He stood in his underclothes in the centre of his room and stared about the interior as though surveying it for the first time.

"So this is it." He said. "So this is it."

After a bare two months of happiness he didn't physically feel as though he would ever be happy again.

Watson felt his lip tremble. He bit it angrily. He didn't deserve to cry, to pity himself. But his heart ached. He felt so unhappy and so heartbroken. He just wanted to be with Holmes.

A small, weak whimper escaped his lips. He slid down against his dresser and pressed his face to his palm, trying to force back the tears which threatened to fall.

"Oh, Holmes." He moaned. "I'd give anything to be with you. I'd give everything."

He furiously blinked back the moisture, pulling his knees to his chest and gazing dully across the darkening floor.

**oOo**

Mary didn't understand her husband. She thought she had. When she had taken his hand and made her vow to obey and love him, she thought she had understood him.

But something along the way had gone wrong. She had looked at herself; she had looked at what she could have done to drive him away. Perhaps she had clung too tightly, perhaps she had been too distant, perhaps she was too uneducated or perhaps she spoke too much. Or perhaps he simply had never loved her.

She sunk down into her chair and clutched her cold hands in her lap. The pain she felt was almost incomprehensible.

But even that pain was nothing compared to the all consuming hatred she felt for Sherlock Holmes. She would have given anything that Watson had never met him. But bitterly and paradoxically, that would also mean that she never would have met Watson. But perhaps that would have been better. Watson was not the man she had thought he was.

But even after his betrayal and his cruelty she loved him still. Loved him feverishly. She would have done anything to keep him. She would have sacrificed anything for him to love her again. She didn't intend to let him go. Not to anyone. Certainly not to Sherlock Holmes.

She bit her lip and her heart gave an anxious pang. She absently laid a hand on her stomach.

The sun was beginning to set. The light was dying outside. Soon it would be dark.

**oOo**

"Finally, I think they're gone."

The drawing room door crept open with a low growl. Two maids edged inside. It was almost pitch black inside. They had been waiting all day to be able to get inside to clean and now it was almost dinnertime.

"Ridiculous." One of them grumbled, as they began to light the lamps. "Spending all day in here. You'd think she would have better things to do with her time." She paused with smirk. "Or perhaps she doesn't."

The other maid tittered. They were vaguely aware of their master and mistress's marital problems. Unlike other households, John and Mary attempted to keep their own affairs private but raised voices and angry footsteps gave away more than gossip ever could.

It was almost too late to do a proper clean. They hurriedly straightened cushions, dusted the portrait frames and put away fallen books and ornaments.

One of them went to Watson's writing desk and began straightening the papers and ink pens scattered across it. Watson hadn't had much cause to write letters as of late and his absence had not eluded the servants. They accredited it to his preferring his job to his wife. The truth was unknown to them. Mercifully.

She bundled a pile of envelopes and unlocked the top drawer to put them in. The housekeeper kept the key on a chain around her neck, a copy of Watson's own key. The maids were allowed to use it only when they cleaned and even then they knew that if anything was moved or misplaced, they would be almost as good as unemployed.

This was why as she opened the bottom drawer, the maid gave a horrified gasp.

The other turned. "What?"

"It's gone." The first replied faintly, staring in horror at the bottom drawer. It was spotlessly clean. Empty. "It's gone!"

"What are you talking about?" Her friend snapped. "What have you lost?" She stomped over and stared at the drawer. "Oh God."

"I didn't touch it, I swear!" The first maid said, dropping the key as though it would remove her from blame. "I haven't even cleaned this desk for weeks!"

"Shut up." The second said sharply. "Just leave it and don't say anything to anyone."

She hurriedly nudged the drawer shut with her foot and snatched up the keys. "Understand?" She said forcefully.

The first, who had been staring wide eyed at the open drawer, gave a small jump as it snapped shut and looked up at her. "Maybe he took it to be repaired." She said hopefully.

Her friend shrugged. "I thoroughly doubt it. He hasn't touched it in months."

"What could he need with it?" The first maid said, getting to her feet and dusting herself off.

"I don't know. Just keep your mouth shut." The second said irritably, shoving the key in her pocket. "If anyone thinks we've lost the Master's pistol, our lives won't be worth living."


	22. Darkness

In his youth Holmes had liked to collect things. When he had been very young it had been acorns and conkers and bottle caps and pennies. When he had matured he had begun adopting small birds and animals. Sometimes it had been injured squirrels or hedgehogs, other times it had been baby robins and sparrows with broken wings.

Even as a child he had baulked at any unnecessary closeness to others, emotions eluded him, friendship unnerved and confused him. His affinity to animals had grown out of a combination of loneliness and scientific curiosity.

One day his brother had gifted him with a baby rabbit whose mother he had shot. Holmes refused to eat the rabbit pie thus produced for dinner but he had felt an immediate affinity to the kit. He made a home for it in an empty hat box and for three weeks barely kept it from his sight.

Then one day, for some reason or another that he could no longer remember, he had left the house in a hurry. He had forgotten to check on the rabbit.

It wasn't until that evening that he remembered he had left his door open. When he arrived home he found his room effectively painted in blood. His father's dog had found the rabbit.

He didn't know what had suddenly reminded him of that bitter childhood memory thirty years later as he laid motionless on his own bed in the growing darkness. He had often considered that this was what had sparked his interest in death but he didn't think that it was that simple. The death of his rabbit had caused a sense of dreadful loss in him. He hadn't ever adopted another animal. He was inadequate. He hadn't been able to care for the rabbit. He hadn't been able to care for Watson.

He was wrapped in his own sense of failure. He felt empty.

He closed his eyes slowly and felt the aching dampness gather at his lashes. A tear drop trembled on the rim of his eye; he felt it dribble down his cheek.

He was tired of searching the pages for what he had done to drive Watson away into Mary's arms. The pain was too raw. Why did Watson need both Holmes _and_ Mary? Why couldn't he be satisfied just with Holmes?

"Uh, just shut up." He moaned, burying his eyes in his hands.

The more he questioned himself, the more he tore at the wound which had been growing larger and larger since he and Watson first began their disastrous affair.

He struggled upright. His head gave a protesting throb of pain. He blinked the darkness and tears out of his eyes and stretched his hand out to the bedcovers. His fingers came into contact with the cold glass of a bottle. He gripped it, clumsily pulling the stopper out. Some of the liquid inside burst over his fingers. He tentatively licked it off, cringing at the odd, pungent taste.

He swallowed, holding the bottle tightly in his hand. This was not how he had envisaged it. He had imagined something far more fitting for Sherlock Holmes than withering away in the darkness with heartbreak. He could recall the last words of many great people. He didn't feel great, he didn't feel powerful. He felt tired and wounded.

With a soft sigh he lay back against the pillows and brought the bottle to his mouth. The smell of laudanum always made him feel vaguely nauseous; he regretted that it would be the last thing he'd ever be aware of.

He hesitated. The taste of the opiate was on his tongue. This was what he wanted. And yet-

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He jerked. He felt some of the cold liquid slosh down his front.

He struggled to his feet, pushing the bottle onto the chair beside the bed. He stood in the middle of the pitch black room, feeling almost frozen where he stood. There was another knock. It sounded too calculated, too calm to possibly be Watson. And yet... He threw a longing glance at the door of his bedroom. He entertained a pathetic hope that Watson had come back for him.

He was weak. Weak and pathetic for leaning so heavily on Watson but... He glanced into the darkness where he knew the bottle sat. This was not precisely the exit of a brave or strong man.

There was another louder, more erratic knock. Holmes exhaled heavily and went to answer it.

**oOo**

The slither of light from the drawing room door was the only source of light in the almost pitch darkness of the downstairs corridor. Watson stood motionlessly in the darkness, his heart beating restlessly in his chest. He curled and uncurled his fingers.

Behind this door was Mary. The woman who he had hurt and abused more than any person had right to do. It had not been any fault of hers that he had married her while being in love with another, but he felt as though they were damned to forever regret their vows. They could never be happy and there was nothing he could do to end their pain.

With a heavy sigh, he reached out his hand to the doorknob.

The door fell open with a low growl. He started in surprise. The room was empty. Mary was gone.

With a shake of his head, he went to the sofa and fell heavily down onto it. There was so much to say to her and he had finally felt ready to say it but his chance was again dashed by fate.

He stared broodingly across the floor and his eyes fell upon something glinting dimly in the dying sunlight streaming through the window. Watson frowned at it, straightening in his chair.

It was a key. Not just any key, the key to his writing desk. He knew the housekeeper had a copy and he wondered if one of the servants had carelessly left it there.

He pushed himself upright and went to pick it up. He knew as soon as he saw it up close that it was not the housekeeper's key. It was _his_ key.

His insides turned cold. "Oh God." He heard himself say numbly.

It wouldn't have been difficult for someone to take it. He kept it unguarded on a bookcase in the study but he knew it hadn't been a servant who took it.

Swallowing, he bent down to the bottom drawer and slowly opened it, dreading what he knew he'd inevitably find.

"Damn." He swore, staring in disbelief at the empty drawer. " _Damn_."

He slammed the drawer closed and half stumbled, half leapt to his feet, pushing the key into his pocket. Everything was sharpening into terrifying clarity in his mind. He knew who had taken the gun. He knew why they had taken the gun. His heart gave a panicked throb.

He all but sprinted to the front door, leaving his coat and hat. He was blinded by terror as he threw open the door onto the freezing evening air and rushed out into the darkness.

**oOo**

Mary had never held a gun before. It was heavier than she'd imagined. It was also bulky and she wasn't quite sure where to put it. She finally settled on putting it in her reticule, which she rarely used.

She felt strangely unaware of her surroundings as she calmly tied her cape around her shoulders and pressed her hat onto her tangled hair. She closed the door behind her, glancing once up at the window of her and Watson's bedroom before she stepped down into the thinning crowd on the footpath.

She hailed a cabriolet and sat silently as the driver took her to Baker Street. Her mind had gone blank, like someone who was about to die. Or about to do something too terrible to comprehend. She didn't want to comprehend it. She wanted to be numb.

She fingered the pistol absentmindedly. She hadn't liked Watson keeping it in the house. Not so much because she disliked guns, rather because it was a constant souvenir of his life with Holmes. She could almost laugh at how naive she had been to think she could cleanse Watson of his obsession with that man. She had married a man who was already chained emotionally, mentally, _physically_ to someone else.

She shook her head with a wan smile. She couldn't change the past, no matter how deeply she had wished to in recent times.

But she could change the future. She ran a finger along the barrel of the pistol and shivered slightly.

She paid the driver and walked calmly up to Holmes's domain. She was uncomfortably conscious of the pistol's heavy weight slapping against her thigh, she moved the reticule from her left shoulder to her right.

She reached the door but didn't knock.

When she went inside this door, there was no way she could shirk her intentions. She could not go back. The rapid beat of her heart in her chest betrayed her, she couldn't remain calm. Not when she was about to meet her destiny. She knew it was her destiny. She loved Watson; she loved him more than anything else in the world. If this was the only way she could keep him from destroying himself, then so be it.

Setting her jaw, she raised her hand and knocked firmly on the door before she could question herself again.


	23. The Game

Holmes blinked. For a moment he thought he had taken more of the laudanum than he'd thought. He stared into the face of his lover's wife in disbelief.

He had often stewed over what he might say to Mary, had he ever had the chance to face her one last time. But the bitter words he had dreamt of saying to her face evaporated abruptly where he stood.

Their eyes met, there was silence. There was a sense of appraisal between them, as though they were judging what precisely the other possessed that they themselves lacked. One had John Watson's devotion, but not his commitment, the other his commitment but not his devotion. Both were not happy with their share, but they could never have both while the other still lingered in Watson's consciousness.

Holmes's hand shook slightly on the doorknob. He didn't know what he felt towards her. He felt physically drained by grief; he didn't have the strength left for anger.

"What do you want?" He asked her, surprising himself with the calmness in his voice.

Mary jerked in surprise. She cleared her throat. "I need to speak to you, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm no longer required to suffer your company, Mrs. Watson." Holmes replied shortly, intending to slam the door in her face.

Before he could, Mary had hurriedly slammed her foot in the door. "Please, Mr. Holmes." She said, her eyes almost desperate. "This is for John's sake."

Holmes didn't move. He should have told her to leave him alone and never come back. He should have shut the door on her and taken the opium and been content that he hadn't let her have the last laugh. But, he never seemed to do what he should.

He nodded and opened the door for her. She hesitated, looking slightly surprised that he was letting her inside. "Thank you." She said hesitantly, stepping over the threshold.

Holmes grunted at her and went to the mantelpiece for his pipe. He felt around in his pocket for a match.

"He left you, didn't he?" Mary said from behind him.

Holmes froze, his fingers around the match. "If you're here to gloat-

"I'm not." Mary said quietly.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders and lit the match. "Then what are you doing here?" He growled, taking a drag of his pipe and savouring the taste.

If he did end up killing himself, he would definitely need a smoke beforehand.

"I'm here to say everything I've never had a chance to say to you." Mary said, suddenly angry. "I'm here to make it clear just how deeply you've wounded me."

Holmes didn't move, he felt the weight of her words but he determinedly shrugged them away. They had all been hurt. It was not just her who had suffered. "Then in return you will listen to how deeply you have hurt me." Holmes said quietly, his heart suddenly beating very hard in his chest.

There was a momentary silence and then he heard her exhale angrily. "Hurt you?"

Holmes turned furiously. "Don't you dare stand there and pretend you are free of blame."

"I have done nothing wrong!" Mary snapped, her hand suddenly going to her reticule. Her fingers curled around the strap. "You took my husband from me. From the first day I met you, you've made it abundantly clear that you will allow no woman to take John from you."

"You do not deserve John Watson." Holmes spat. "I indeed apologise for the pain I have caused you, but I will never forgive you for making Watson unhappy. You never understood my work; you never even attempted to share Watson's passion."

Mary's face had gone a violent scarlet colour; Holmes could see his own anger reflected in her eyes. "Your love is wrong. It is sinful-

"It makes Watson _happy_." Holmes retorted. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

"You mean it makes _you_ happy." Mary retorted.

Holmes hesitated. "Yes," He said after a moment. "It does make me happy. Very happy."

Mary sniffed disgustedly. "We cannot always have what we want." She said coldly.

"Like a child?" Holmes said quietly.

Mary didn't reply. Her eyes were filled with resentment as she glared back at Holmes.

" _Are_ you pregnant, Mary?" Holmes said harshly. "Can you really look me in the eye and tell me that there is a child?"

For the first time that evening, Mary's countenance faltered visibly before his eyes. "You believe I would lie about such a thing?" She said quietly, her voice shaking slightly.

"Is there a child?" Holmes asked forcefully.

Mary's stared coldly at him. "I will not answer such impertinent questions from the likes of you."

Holmes laughed bitterly. "You would do anything to keep your husband. Even when you know that the only thing that will make him truly happy is if you let him go."

"And what about _my_ happiness?" Mary said shrilly.

"Watson can't make you happy." Holmes said stonily. "He'll never be the husband you want him to be."

"Not if you're still in his life." Mary whispered, her fingers tightening around her reticule.

Holmes gave a humourless bark of laughter and fell silent.

"No matter what happens." Mary said quietly, her eyes on the floor. She seemed almost to be talking to herself. "He'll always choose you over me. Over his own children if need be. He is dedicated to you. Wholly."

Holmes swallowed; his throat had become very dry. He fell into a chair, staring broodingly at his pipe. "But he chose you. He left me. You've won, Mary. Go home."

"Won?" Mary said hollowly. "Won the game, have I? This sick, little game you've been playing with my husband? I haven't won anything, Holmes. My husband is in love with you."

Holmes's heart leapt in his chest. He was ashamed to even hope that she was right but he would have given anything to know that Watson truly loved him still, to know that she wasn't lying. He forced himself to turn away from that hope. "It doesn't matter." He said in a low voice. "He's made his choice."

"Yes, he has." Mary said in a hard voice. "He's chosen a wife, a child, a good life. I love him, Holmes. I love him more than you will ever understand. I won't let you take him from me."

"I'm not going to _take_ him from you." Holmes snarled angrily. "For God's sake! I have nothing else to give you! I owe you _nothing_ , Mary! Nothing! Get out of my home. Go home to your husband. Go home to your 'good life'. Leave me in peace, for God's sake."

He felt a surge of emotion in his chest. He felt the tears sting at his eyes. He hastily blinked them away. Not in front of her, he told himself. Be strong in front of her.

"You still don't understand, do you?" Mary said quietly, fingers sliding into the fabric reticule. "No matter where he goes. No matter how far we are from you. No matter what he does, who he's married to. You will always torment him. He will never be able to thrive while you are alive." She sounded so calm, so serene. As though her reasoning couldn't possibly have been denied.

Holmes, who had been staring into his lap, his hand grasped around his pipe, gave a jerk and looked up sharply. Suddenly her words came into focus. Suddenly, he knew what they meant.

With his heart in his throat, he slowly looked up. And into the barrel of a pistol aimed at his heart.

**oOo**

Watson would have paid any sum of money to make the cabriolet driver whip his horses harder, to avoid the streets most congested with traffic, to drive just that little bit faster. He would have given any of his belongings to be there now. No. He would have given _all_ of his belongings for this never to have happened. He had driven Mary to this madness. He had driven her to murder.

He buried his head in his hands. "Oh please, for the love of God, hurry up." He moaned.

When the cab turned into Baker Street, Watson was halfway out of the door before the driver had even brought it to a complete stop. He shoved his whole wallet at the driver and sprinted to 221b.

He stumbled up the stairs, tripping on almost every step in his desperation to get to the door. He counted it as a blessing when he turned the knob and it was unlocked. He threw it open and fell over the threshold, landing painfully on his knees.

Mary turned in fright, the gun still in her hand. "John-

Watson's eyes darted from the gun in his wife's gloved hand to Holmes's stunned figure behind her. "Mary..." He said slowly, frozen where he was on all-fours. He didn't dare to feel relieved that Holmes wasn't dead while Mary was still holding the gun. "What are you doing here?"

He knew that to accuse her would be very unwise. He had to be careful, careful until he had the gun safe in his own hand.

"You shouldn't have come here, John." Mary said quietly. "You should have stayed away. I didn't want you to see this."

She turned back to Holmes. Holmes was sitting motionless in the chair. He didn't look frightened, he looked surprised as though this wasn't going quite as he had expected it. Watson could almost feel exasperated at Holmes's calmness if he hadn't been so terrified himself.

"Mary!" He said desperately. "See _what_? What are you going to do? What do you think this will achieve?"

He wanted her to see the madness in what she was doing. He wanted her to come to her senses and suddenly become the Mary he knew, the Mary he had married.

"You know he'll always come between us." Mary said, as though trying to convince him of that fact. "How can we ever be happy while he's still alive?"

"Mary," Watson said, getting carefully to his feet, not daring to make a sound. Holmes's wide brown eyes darted towards him and then to Mary. "This will not make anything better. I'm coming home with you. I'm married to _you_. This will achieve nothing!"

Mary's hand shook slightly around the gun. "I love you so much, John." She whimpered. John saw a tear trickle down her cheek. "I have to do this."

"Do what?" Watson said as calmly as he could.

"Put an end to his hold on you." Mary said firmly. But Watson could hear the tiny shiver of uncertainty to her voice. He had to play on that. He had to make her doubt herself.

"He has no hold on me, Mary." Watson said hurriedly. "He means _nothing_ to me. I walked away from him. I walked away from the... the..." He faltered. Holmes's eyes flickered towards him again, bright and remarkably calm for someone being held at gunpoint.

Watson looked intently at Holmes, willing Holmes to understand he was lying. He hadn't ever wanted to hold Holmes more than at that moment. He wanted to hold him and never leave him again. But, he had missed his chance. And now he may never have another.

"Please, Mary." He said in a thin voice. His heart was aching, he felt weak with fear. "Please, _please_ don't do this. I beg you. I'll do anything."

"You see," Mary spat, jerking her head at him. "No matter what you do. You cannot break his grasp. You love him still."

Watson's words died in his throat. He saw her finger settle on the trigger and his heartbeat seemed to die in his chest.

If she applied even the slightest pressure to the trigger-

"Mary, listen to me." Watson said desperately. "I don't love him. I've never loved him. I _used_ him! I love you. Put down the gun and I promise we'll go as far as possible from this place."

He had never spoken so quickly or told so many lies in such a short amount of time in his entire life. Mary didn't move. She stood perfectly still, her hand still tightly around the gun. One movement and Holmes would die. All she had to do was move her finger.

"Please," Watson said, his voice failing him.

Mary turned her head, so her blue eyes were on his. He didn't see anger in her face, he saw pity. And it frightened him more than anything else. "I'm doing this for you, John." She said softly.

She pulled the trigger at the same moment Watson threw himself at her. She was thrown sideways and the shot ended up hitting the fireplace behind Holmes and a bare half a metre from his head.

Mary was surprisingly strong. Watson struggled against her, desperately trying to get to the pistol. She scratched at him and twisted beneath him, holding the gun at arm's length from his grasp.

Behind them, Holmes shakily stood up, the shock finally registering on his face as he watched Mary and Watson struggling on the floor.

"Let go of me, John!" Mary was screaming as she thrashed against him. "I'll kill him! I want to kill the filthy sodomite with my own hands! I want to see him breathe his last wretched _breath_." She had completely lost her patience; she looked half insane with rage. She kicked out, catching Watson in the stomach and completely winding him.

Taking advantage of Watson's temporary state of shock she wrenched the gun from his hand and aimed it at Holmes's head. Holmes flinched. Ignoring the pain in his gut, Watson put both his hands around her wrist tightly and forced the gun out of her hand. He threw it across the floorboards and thrust her away from him.

She crumpled down onto the floorboards, her whole body collapsing into sobs. Watson stared down at her, too shocked to even comprehend what he had done. What she had almost done.

"Oh, Mary." He said wretchedly. "I'm sorry."

Holmes was still standing motionless in front of his chair. He was staring at Mary with an emotionless look on his face. Noticing his shell-shocked friend, Watson went to him and pulled him firmly into his arms. Holmes didn't respond. Watson could feel his heart beating rapidly. Watson held him tightly to him.

Mary looked up slowly from the floor, the tears still streaming from her eyes. She saw how Watson held Holmes in his arms. She saw for the first time clearly with her own eyes the raw and intense passion between the two men. The passion that she could never, ever have. Her heart burnt with hatred.

Holmes gently pushed Watson away. He looked shaken. Mary was consumed by loathing, consumed by jealousy. She crawled across the floor to the gun.

"Are you alright?" Watson said softly to Holmes. Holmes moved away from him slightly as though he didn't want to be near him.

"Please, just... leave me alone." Holmes said quietly, rubbing his head wearily. "Get her out-

The shot rang through the air like an explosion. Holmes and Watson both jerked in alarm, throwing themselves against each other. The shot grazed the arm of the chair behind them.

" _Mary_!" Watson roared.

Her eyes were blank, the gun held steady and tight in her hand. "This is for you, John." She said coldly and she pulled the trigger again.

Watson's mind went blank. The bullet seemed to move in slow motion through the air, he thought he could hear it coming, whistling. Without thinking, without knowing what he was doing, Watson flung himself forward.

A moment later, pain erupted through his shoulder. He cried out in agony. He felt himself falling, he could hear Holmes and Mary screaming, their voices twisting and morphing together in blurred chaos.

"You _bitch_." Holmes spat, falling to his knees beside Watson's figure.

Mary stared in horror as the blood began to stain through Watson's shirt. Watson moaned, a strange gurgling sound accompanying the moan. He was losing consciousness. "John..." She said softly.

She stared at the gun in her hand. "I shot my husband." She said blankly. "I shot my husband."

"If you've killed him," Holmes snarled at her. "I swear I'll see you hanged. I swear it, you hear me?"

Mary didn't move. She stared at the hand holding the gun. Then, slowly and carefully she put the gun to her temple. Holmes stared at her, his insides went cold. "Mary..." He said quietly.

"You've won." Mary said, the ghost of a smile shuddering on her lips.

And she pulled the trigger.


	24. This Filth

The first thing Watson became aware of was warmth. Warmth all over his body, like he was in some sort of soft, heavy cacoon. Soon after, a strange but familiar odour hit his nostrils. That of medicine and bandages and alcohol. His foggy, disorientated mind began to piece together the smells and sounds overwhelming his confused senses.

He slowly opened his eyes, slightly reluctant to immediately reanimate when he felt so calm and warm. His left shoulder gave a faint ache beneath the thick layer of covers and he was brought rudely back into awareness.

He blinked blearily at the ceiling, too heavy with sleep, as well as the blankets pulled up to his chin to sit upright. He gave a low groan as his body slowly began to become conscious of the pain.

"Holmes." He croaked.

There was an immediate rustle of movement beside his bed. Holmes's unshaved, ruffled head appeared over the bed. "John." He said tenderly, pushing Watson's hair back from his face. "You're awake. At last."

_John?_ Thought Watson confusedly. Oh God, I must be dying. "Am I at the hospital?" He asked thickly through a throat swollen and sore from disuse.

"Yes. Of course." Holmes smiled.

"Am I... dying?" Watson ventured uncertainly, trying to shift under the thick swathe of blankets.

Holmes laughed. "Dying? No, you were not quite that heroic." He sat on the edge of Watson's bed, further imprisoning him below the covers.

Watson breathed out slowly. He was in the hospital. He was not dying. There was just one other matter which pressed on his still groggy mind. "And Mary?" He said hollowly, watching Holmes's face.

Holmes was silent for a moment and then he placed a hand gently on the covers wrapped tightly over Watson's chest. "I think you need to concentrate on your own wellbeing for the present." He said gently, as though he was speaking to an invalid.

"It's alright. I'd rather know." Watson said quietly.

Holmes was silent again for a moment, then he turned to Watson with a very strange look on his face. It made Watson distinctly uncomfortable. "Is it because you wish you chose her over me?"

Watson started. "What! What on earth are you talking about?" He narrowed his eyes at Holmes's face. "You're acting very odd, Holmes. Are you sure you're alright?"

A peculiar, slow smile came across Holmes's face; he stood up and pressed his hands onto Watson's chest. It hurt slightly and Watson couldn't move under his weight. "Holmes! What the devil are you playing at? Take your hands off of me. I'm getting up this instant and fetching a nurse, you are evidently not well."

He tried to straighten up but Holmes increased the pressure on his chest, effectively pinning him to the bed. "No, I think it's best if you stay here." He said sweetly.

He was treating Watson like a child! And it irked him. "See here, Holmes." He said sternly. "I've been shot in the arm, not the head. I'm not incapacitated. I really will not tolerate being mollycoddled like a child. I am perfectly capable of-

Holmes suddenly withdrew his hands. "You're quite right." He said. "You're not a child. You can take care of yourself. I simply think it would be best if you remained in bed for the time being. The doctor would not like you wandering about in your present delicate state-

" _Delicate state_!" Watson burst out.

" _Please_." Holmes said sternly, fixing Watson with a rather unHolmeslike look.

Watson glowered at him. "Oh alright." He said in a low voice, relaxing against the pillows.

"That's better." Holmes said, sitting back on the edge of the bed.

Silence fell between them. Watson still felt oddly... absent. He felt drowsy and dizzy, like his head was behind a thick fog. He moved about under the blankets, trying to loosen them. His limbs became less numb. All except his left arm which seemed oddly stiff. He tried to manoeuvre it so it wasn't so crushed against the pillows but he found it very difficult to move it when he couldn't even-

He froze, frowning at the ceiling. "Holmes..." He said slowly. "I can't feel my left arm."

Holmes slowly turned to Watson. "Watson, you know I love you." He said blandly. "No matter what the circumstances." He slid off the bed and came to Watson's side. He clutched Watson's right hand which was now curled around the blankets in an effort to tug them off. "I'll always care for you."

Watson hated this new Holmes. He was like a puppet, a faceless mask. He wasn't Watson's Holmes. "Get off of me." Watson snapped, tearing his hand from Holmes's. He could feel the panic rising in his chest. Something was wrong. Something was wrong with Holmes. Something was wrong with _him._

Holmes stood back, looking calm. "Please, don't be too upset." He said mildly.

Watson stared at him for a moment and then, setting his jaw he gripped the covers with his right hand and tore them back. "Oh God." He said faintly.

Tears were now steaming from Holmes's eyes though his eyes themselves looked strangely vacant. He fell onto his knees beside Watson's bed. "It'll be alright," He said soothingly. "I'll look after you."

Watson looked in blank horror from Holmes's tear obscured face to the empty shirt sleeve hanging grotesquely by his side. He tried to move his arm; he wanted to flex his fingers. He wouldn't believe that that mauled stump, that blood stained white sleeve was _his_. "Oh my God." He whimpered, the panic beginning to take full hold of him. It seeped through his veins like poison.

Holmes's hands grasped at him again. "I know it's a shock-

"A shock?" Watson repeated. "A _shock?"_ He roared, forcing Holmes away from him with his remaining good arm. " _How could you let them do this to me!_ "

Holmes didn't move from beside Watson, he looked calm. It infuriated Watson. It terrified him. "There was no other way." He said quietly. "You would have died."

"Then you should have let me die!" Watson shouted wildly, grabbing at his mutilated arm. "You should have let me die!" He sobbed. "Oh God." He pressed a hand to his face.

He was drowning. This was hell. This was his punishment. He was being punished and this was hell. He wasn't strong enough for this. He wasn't brave enough for this.

"Oh God you should have let me die." He sobbed uncontrollably, clawing at his face. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Please kill me."

Holmes threw himself onto him. Watson flinched, trying to fight Holmes away, one handed.

"Watson! For God's sake! Watson!"

Watson threw his hand out hard and felt it connect with human flesh-

" _Ouch_!" An indignant female voice suddenly cut through the confusion. "That's it! I've had enough! I can't put up with these fits anymore. It isn't normal-

Watson felt a cold rush of bile in his throat. He flung himself forward. He retched as some of the sickly, warm liquid was forced up from his throat. He felt it trickle down his chin.

"Then get out! You useless, old cow." Holmes's voice came again, now cold and furious.

"Well, _really_. I've never been treated thus in my entire life."

A sniff. High heeled shoes on wood. A door opening. Footsteps outside. Silence.

Watson opened his eyes. His chest heaved. He felt as though he'd just broken the surface of water. He had been submerged in darkness and now he could breathe again, he could see daylight and-

"Holmes." He said weakly and with a faint groan he leant over the bed and vomited into the bedpan beside him. Not much came, just water and bile. He could feel his chest heaving as it tried to bring up more. He groaned and sunk back down into bed.

Holmes smiled wanly at him. "Lovely to see you too." He said lightly, dampening a cloth in the bowl of water by the bed and wiping away the vomit from Watson's mouth.

He knelt by Watson's side, pushing the hair back from the doctor's clammy forehead. "Another dream?"

Watson looked away, abashed. He had spent the greater part of the past week crying in his sleep, screaming for Holmes and waking up in cold sweats. The nightmares varied. Sometimes he witnessed Mary shooting Holmes dead while he watched from above, desperately struggling to reach his friend's bleeding body. In others he watched Mary hang herself. He heard the crack of her neck and the look of agony as she suffocated to death. And then others... The most prevalent dream, the dream which came back again and again night after night was the dream where he awoke with his arm amputated. Somehow it was the dream that frightened him more than any of the others. He had even wet himself once in the middle of it and awoke in a disgusting puddle of his own sweat and filth. He felt pathetic. He felt like he was falling apart.

"I'll fetch you a jug of water." Holmes said presently. "... And another nurse."

Watson had gone through three nurses in his week in hospital. Fine, upstanding women but a little unused to Holmes's fondness for interfering and watching everything they did with a constant stream of criticism to accompany it. Or Watson's increasingly violent nightmares. Those had become the last straw for many of them. Being slapped across the face by a hysterical, bedridden Watson and insulted and chided daily by an increasingly edgy, irate Holmes was not what they had signed up for, in short.

Holmes returned with the water but not the nurse. He looked testy. "They're trying to talk that old witch into coming back." He said sourly, slamming the jug down onto the table beside Watson's bed. "These people are incompetent." He irritably filled a cup.

"Holmes, it's fine. I don't mind." Watson said calmly, propping himself up against his pillows. He placed back the covers with his right arm and looked tentatively down at his left. It was still there. In its bulky, uncomfortable sling. Of course it was still there. Watson shook his head at himself and accepted the water Holmes pushed into his hands. "I can understand their frustration, Holmes-

" _Their_ frustration?" Holmes replied incredulously, falling into his claimed chair by Watson's bed and fishing for his pipe in his pockets. That was another point of difference between him and the nurses. He refused to give it up, even in a hospital.

"These dreams," Watson said tiredly, rubbing at his throbbing head and pushing the empty cup onto the table. "Won't go away."

Holmes looked up, his features softened. "You've been through a terrible trauma." He said gently. "It'll be alright." Watson shivered.

"Don't." He said in a pained voice. "Talk like that. You remind me of..." He shook his head. "Never mind."

Holmes frowned, concerned. "Bad dreams are to be expected. After... after..." He faltered. "Such an event."

Watson nodded wearily and wiggled back down into the cacoon of blankets. "I hope that nurse comes back." He said vaguely. On seeing Holmes's face, he hastily added. "So she can empty the bed pan."

Holmes nodded primly and relaxed back in his chair. "Well, try and get some rest at least."

Watson lay still, staring blankly up at the ceiling. It was easy for Holmes to demand he get 'rest'. When Watson slept, he had dreams, and they were beginning to take a toll on him. He was almost afraid to sleep. Holmes stayed by his side day and night, terrified that if he left for a single moment one of Watson's night terrors would take hold of him. They'd tried various things. Potions, medicines, sleeping draughts, different foods, mulled wine, books, candles. Nothing seemed to quell the nightmares.

Watson drooped against the pillows. Holmes noticed his dejected countenance. "Here now. These dreams will eventually go, Watson. I won't sleep until they do."

"Don't be stupid." Watson said, though he felt his cheeks warm at his friend's devotion. "I know they'll go. But when? Days? Weeks? _Months?_ I don't think I can take it for that long."

Holmes frowned. He leant on his arm, thinking. He had considered so many different solutions but nothing helped. He would have given anything to banish the nightmares, just so Watson could begin to heal. He had been suffering this past week. Every time he slept, he dreamed. Holmes himself hadn't slept more than an hour at a time since... since... He moved uncomfortably in his chair and pressed his pipe between his lips. Since _that_ had happened.

Though his insomnia had developed out of fear that he wouldn't be awake to bring Watson out of his nightmares, rather than because he was affected. Despite having a gun directed at his head and being shot at three times, Holmes felt quite well. Perhaps he was used to people attempting to kill him. And besides the greatest trauma for Watson hadn't been being shot...

Holmes glanced at his brooding lover, staring fixedly at a crack in the ceiling wallpaper.

But if only he could soothe Watson. If only he could turn his thoughts away from death and despair. He wanted to comfort Watson, show him how his life could be now. To remind Watson of his new happiness. To _inspire_ him-

Holmes jolted upright. _Inspire him._ He glanced slyly at Watson. Could such a thing work? He cocked his head. Maybe. Perhaps. Watson could be a dreadful prude but... He grinned to himself. It may work.

"Watson, I'm going out." He announced, getting to his feet and pressing his hat onto his head. "I have had an idea."

"What idea?" Watson said blankly, peering at him from his swathe of blankets and pillows. "Where are you going?" He struggled upright.

Holmes could hear the slight panic to Watson's voice. He didn't want to be left alone. "I won't be longer than an hour or two. I promise." He said, bending down and (with a hasty glance about to make sure there were no nurses skulking about) kissed Watson's slightly parted lips.

"Mmf." Watson said weakly against him. "Alright then."

Holmes winked and disappeared out of the door.

**oOo**

Holmes was surprised and quite impressed that he remembered his way to Holywell Street. He hadn't been there for many years. Not since he was a repressed, sexually confused youth. In its scarlet confines, home to inverts and perverts since the Regency years, one could find whatever explicit visual material one could possibly want, along with books which mapped out the various places in London where people of various inclinations could get their kicks.

Swarms of prostitutes spilled out of its confines onto The Strand, homosexuals (or 'mandrakes' as they were widely known to the grimy sort that were to be found here) lurked in the gloom, hoping to meet likeminded men and other men slipped into the lines of pornographic shops to leer over drawings and photographs of whatever their fancy might be.

Holmes pulled his collar a little higher and his hat a little lower. This was not the sort of place one wanted to be found; especially since the _Obscene Publications Act_ had made pornography illegal and possession of it an arrestable offence. Although the police were admittedly lenient in the circumstance they actually managed to catch someone when so many of the force participated in the trade and worse.

Holmes hadn't gone three feet and he already had prostitutes pawing at him, tugging at their corsets, offering him all sorts of obscene services in return for some pittance. He shrugged off their advances with a laugh, promising he'd walk back that way, promising he'd consider their offers. He felt a little cruel in getting their hopes up but then again they couldn't really have any shortage of patronage in these parts.

It was the men that threatened to throw him off course. Some of them were so _young_. And not at all bad looking, and the way they were looking at the men walking past-

"No. For God's sake. Put it back in your trousers." Holmes growled, beginning to scan the shops on either side.

Holmes didn't think what he was looking for would be particularly difficult to obtain if he chose the right shop. The pornographers were willing to provide whatever material was required to make money, they didn't care who or what interested their customers, if it could be drawn or photographed it was likely sold in Holywell.

He spied an old bookshop that he'd haunted once when he'd first come to London. He felt relieved to see a familiar sight and made a beeline for it.

He was almost at the door when he suddenly felt hands on his sleeve. He jerked in surprise as a filthy young man seemingly stepped out from the shadows. His dirty red hair was hanging about a startlingly young face, he couldn't have been older than fifteen.

"'Allo, sir." He leered, hands twisting around Holmes's arm, trying to press closer to him. He stank of beer. "Would'ja like some comp'ny." He said breathlessly. "I'm ever so oglibin'."

Holmes could feel his colour rising. He pried the boy's fingers off his arm, trying not to inhale the stench of alcohol and dirt. "Actually. I'm rather busy." He said offhandedly, trying to edge towards the door of the shop. "Th-thank you for... the- eh offer."

The boy pouted. "Oh but I'm sure I can in'trest you in sommin'-

"Oy! What have I told you about harassing customers outside my bleeding shop?"

Holmes flattened himself against the shop window as a short, rather large man barrelled past him from the door of the book shop.

"I wouldn't touch this one if I were you." He said irritably to Holmes, gripping the cursing prostitute by the collar. "He's got the clap."

"You're a filfy liar! I'm as clean as the day wot I was born." The boy hollered.

"With your whore of a mother I don't deny it, boy." The shopkeeper said nastily, shoving him roughly into the street. "Now stop lurking around and get back to wherever you crawled out from."

He turned on his heel and in a remarkably different manner, bowed to Holmes. Holmes tried not to smile as the boy behind him made a series of colourful gestures to the man's turned back and scampered away. Holmes wished he'd at least given him a little money.

"I am so very sorry, sir." The shopkeeper said in a rather oily manner, ushering Holmes through the door of the little shop before Holmes had time to reply. "This street attracts all sorts. For obvious reasons..." He grinned, showing three gold teeth. "Not that I'm suggesting anything young sir partakes in is unsavoury in any manner." He added hastily, wheezing his way to a stool beside the counter. "Now what can I do for young sir?"

"Not so young." Holmes said bashfully, peering around. He hadn't stepped foot in a shop like this for so long. He felt a little overwhelmed.

The pornography was in no way hidden or obscured. There were women with their breasts fully on display and in various interesting positions under the heavy sweaty bodies of usually older men with their breeches around their ankles. It looked prominently unappealing to Holmes.

Besides, what he was looking for would not be on public display, if it was here at all. Not all of the pornographers sold it. And he just had to hope that the man was not going to chase him out of the shop if he asked.

He sidled up to the shopkeeper's counter, looking about in what he hoped was an unaffected manner. "I..." He hesitated. "Need something slightly different." He peered hopefully at the shopkeeper, willing him to understand without Holmes needing to say it.

But the shopkeeper looked blank. Then he laughed and rubbed his hands together in a vaguely discomforting manner. "Well, we have a range of materials." He said with a sly grin that made a shiver go up Holmes's spine. "Care to specify what... specifically you're interested in?"

Holmes swallowed with a half shrug. He didn't really want to say it out loud; he didn't want to be on record. "It's a little... awkward." He said with a slight cough.

"Bondage?" Said the shopkeeper.

Holmes shook his head.

"Foreign girls?"

Holmes shook his head again.

"Animals-

"God in heaven no." Holmes blustered.

The man was silent for a moment. Holmes fidgeted slightly where he stood.

"Ah." A slow grin came across the shopkeeper's ruddy face. "I think I know what you're after. Follow me." He stood up from his stool and disappeared between two book cases.

Holmes stared after him. He didn't know if he was ready to look, some of the material could be vastly distasteful. And what if it was the wrong material? He considered just leaving but he'd come this far and this really was for Watson not him. And if he was right, this could help put Watson's bad dreams to bed for good. He cringed at the unintentional pun.

With a slight sigh, he followed the horrible shopkeeper, ready to knock him out cold if he even thought about molesting him in the small, dark space between the bookcases.

**oOo**

Watson was not in a good mood when Holmes returned. He had been left on his own for not one, not two but _three_ hours without being able to sleep, with no one to talk to and nothing to distract him from the dull throbbing pain in his bound arm.

"Hello." Holmes said calmly, shifting the parcels in his arms to look at Watson's petulant face.

Watson glowered at him. "You've been gone for ages." He said sourly.

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a child. I've brought you some lovely presents."

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Presents?"

"Oh yes," Holmes purred, sitting on the edge of Watson's bed and depositing the entire pile of various items on Watson's blankets. "Firstly." He produced a paper bag. "Dinner. None of that dreadful hospital fare tonight."

"What is it?" Watson said suspiciously.

"A pie." Holmes said triumphantly.

"What sort of pie?" Watson asked, interested in spite of himself.

"Eel." Holmes said solemnly.

"Disgusting." Watson said irritably. "You know I don't like-

"It's beef." Holmes said, rolling his eyes. He put it aside and felt about for his next 'present'. He found the wrapped box and produced it with a slight flourish. "I made a visit to a tobacconist and picked up some rather expensive cigarettes for you to indulge in."

Watson was impressed and pleased in spite of himself. He felt his cheeks redden. "Oh... well yes... that was very... thoughtful..." He said offhandedly, taking the box from Holmes and staring at it.

"But that isn't the best thing." Holmes said with a mischievous smile. He dug his hand into one of his parcels and took out a brown package tied in string. He handed it to Watson.

Watson stared at it, frowning slightly and then with a shrug he began to struggle one-handed with the string. Holmes hastily tidied away the other gifts, placing the pie and cigarettes on the table beside Watson's bed.

Watson managed to loosen the string and tugged it away. He pulled away the brown paper. Two leather bound books fell into his lap. He stared at them for a moment and then picked one up, squinting at the spine and then at the cover. His eyes widened. He dropped it into his lap again.

"Holmes." He said confusedly, flushing red. "These are... this is... pornography." He finished flatly.

"Indeed it is." Holmes said sweetly. He gathered up the discarded paper and string while Watson continued to watch him with a partly baffled, partly outraged look on his face.

"This is illegal." He said, flustered. "I'm not reading this filth."

Holmes smirked at him on his way to the door. "We'll see."


	25. Sick Men

Holmes glanced up from his newspaper to Watson's sleeping figure. He'd finally fallen asleep after an hour of tossing and turning and complaining. He'd said that the blankets were too stiff, his pillows weren't plump enough, his arm ached, he was cold and he couldn't possible sleep like this. Holmes knew it was really because he was afraid to sleep, he was afraid to dream. He only slept when exhaustion completely overcame him.

But he looked peaceful now. His bound arm was resting on top of the blankets, the rest of him was tucked in up to the armpits. His hair, a little long now from neglect was strewn across his pale face. His lips were slightly apart. His bottom lip had a little bloodied scar on it; it had been hurt when he'd fallen 'that night', as Watson called it. He'd scratched his cheek too. But those inconsequential wounds were nothing. Even his broken collar bone, even the bullet wound that would never completely heal were nothing. He was alive.

Holmes yawned and stretched in his chair. Almost simultaneously he felt a dull throb in his lower stomach. He forced himself to sit still. He had been able to ignore his discomfort, his frustration this entire week Watson had been in hospital. He thought he had more self-discipline than this.

They hadn't slept together for a week. For obvious reasons. They couldn't get anywhere near each other in a hospital crawling with people; nurses lurking at the door and doctors bursting in at all hours of the day. Watson's bound arm was also promising to render fornication rather difficult and certainly would for a while.

Holmes sighed. It was impossible to ignore or disguise his rudimentary desires. He wanted Watson. He wanted to fuck Watson. He wanted to make Watson orgasm right here in his hospital bed.

But that would be highly inadvisable. He sighed again and slumped in his chair.

He glanced down at his crotch. The constant dull ache of unfulfilled arousal was becoming insufferable. He gritted his teeth and folded his newspaper. He'd have to wait. Just a little longer. When he got Watson home, had him all to himself he would do no small number of filthy things to him. To punish him for all the anxiety he'd put Holmes through lately. Not that it would really be much like punishment...

"Ugh..." He mumbled, rubbing vaguely between his legs.

Watson groaned slightly in his sleep and moved restlessly under the hospital blankets.

He stared intently at Watson's calm, still figure. The two pornography books were lying innocuously on the table underneath the box of cigarettes and the pie wrapper. Watson had flatly refused to read them. He had blustered on about Holmes's lack of taste, while steadily becoming redder and redder. Holmes had expected such a reaction. He was not going to force Watson to read them. Certainly not. Watson could read them if he wished. Which, Holmes grinned wickedly, he would. Because Holmes was not going to remove them until Watson did and if Watson didn't want one of the nurses to eventually find them, he would eventually have to acknowledge them.

Watson groaned again. He struggled against the cacoon of bedcovers. He was frowning in his sleep. It escaped Holmes's notice; he was still gazing unfocusedly at Watson's face, lost in his own sexually frustrated thoughts.

Watson gripped at he blankets desperately with his hands, tossing his head to one side and then the other. He whimpered slightly, his frown deepening.

"Uh." He moaned. "P-please-

Holmes jerked where he sat. Watson looked paler than ever, beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Holmes got hurriedly to his feet. After a week of waking Watson from dream after bad dream, he knew the signs.

He bent over Watson's writhing form, taking him firmly by the shoulders. "Watson." He said loudly. "Wake up." He shook him slightly.

The doctor's eyes flickered. "S-top- He moaned. "I can't- I need-

"Watson, it's me. It's alright. It's just another dream." Holmes pushed Watson's hair back from his damp forehead.

Watson's eyes flew open. For a moment a look of total confusion and fear came across his features, his eyes darted wildly about the room. His chest was heaving with desperate, unsteady breaths. Holmes pressed his hand to Watson's head. "Shhh, it's alright." He said softly. "You're alright."

Watson gazed at Holmes. Holmes wondered for a moment of he was awake or was still trapped in his nightmare. Then Watson closed his eyes with a sigh. "Almost three hours without a dream, that must be some sort of record." He said dryly.

Holmes sat on the edge of the bed, still stroking Watson's forehead. "What was it this time?"

Watson looked pained. "Oh, the usual." He said airily. "Reliving my dead wife's final moments whilst you lie dead on the floor in a pool of your own blood."

Holmes swallowed. Watson's attitude to his dreams was one of irritation and resentment. He just wanted them to go and he didn't understand why they were haunting him or how he could rid himself of their constant presence. "Perhaps we should ask the doctor for a drug to-

"No." Watson said sharply. "I'm fine. They're just dreams, Holmes. Dreams can't hurt me."

Holmes wanted to say 'but they are hurting you', but he refrained.

"You can take your hand off my forehead, Holmes." Watson said mildly. "I promise I'm not about to expire."

Holmes withdrew his hand, unabashed. "Are you going to try and sleep?"

"I- Watson faltered. "I don't think so."

Holmes remained silent for a moment. "Are you thirsty?"

"No." Watson said calmly, lying back in his pillows.

"Hungry?"

"No, Holmes. I'm fine-

"Bored?" Holmes said meaningfully.

"It's a hospital, Holmes." Watson said irritably. "Not a fairground."

Holmes shrugged, lowering his eyes.

Watson hesitated. "But, yes. I am a little."

Holmes looked up at him. "Well, you know what to do, don't you?" He said slyly.

"Ask my best friend to buy me a book?" Watson asked hopefully.

Holmes smiled sweetly. "Your best friend already _bought_ you a book." He slid a hand over to the two erotic novels beside the bed. "Two in fact. It's very rude of you to ask him to buy you _more_." He took one of the books and flipped it onto Watson's chest.

Watson blushed and pushed the novel away. It landed on the floor with a thud. "Oh God, Holmes. Pick it up. Pick it up before one of the nurses come."

Holmes rolled his eyes and slid off the bed to fetch the fallen book. "Prude." He mumbled.

"Pervert." Watson retorted.

"So judgemental." Holmes said solemnly, picking up the book and dusting it off. "There's nothing perverted about pornography."

Watson choked a laugh. "And obviously you would know."

Holmes smiled slyly. "Obviously."

Watson's mouth fell open slightly. "What? You really have... read... that sort of thing?"

Holmes placed the book on the table and shrugged. "Perhaps. You wouldn't want me to spoil that innocent, clean mind of yours."

"You're read homosexual pornography?" Watson said disbelievingly. "When?"

"When I was a boy. Or adolescent rather. Not often. I didn't fancy swinging for it." Holmes yawned, taking a seat on Watson's bed again.

Watson scoffed. " _Swinging for it._ You'd be lucky to get a slap on the wrists. You were just a child."

"Perhaps. But my father... or my brother would have beaten me to one inch of death if they'd found it. And then likely have carted me off to Bedlam to be cured." Holmes said serenely. "Homosexuality is a disease you know, Watson. And we're both very sick men."

"You've always been a sick man, Holmes." Watson said dryly. "The fact you like to fuck other men just confirms it."

Holmes grinned. "Such language in a hospital, Watson." He pressed a finger to Watson's lips. "I'm not telling you anything." He bent down and pressed a firm kiss to the doctor's lips.

"Whaf?" Watson said in a muffled voice against Holmes's lips.

Holmes broke away and looked down fondly at Watson. "You'll just have to find out yourself."

"Holmes." Watson thundered.

"Now, now." Holmes said soothingly, stroking Watson's forehead again. "You don't want to upset yourself."

He stood up and went back to his chair, plucking his newspaper off the floor as he went.

"Holmes." Watson said crossly. "I'm not reading it so you might as well tell me."

Holmes laughed. "That was a very poor attempt at reverse psychology, Watson."

He hid his grinning face behind his newspaper and left Watson fuming.


	26. Insufferable

Watson could see Holmes staring at him through the gap in the doctor's arms as he prodded and poked at Watson's wounded arm. It hurt, but Watson stayed silent. He knew that if he let out so much as a grunt Holmes would start flapping. He had proven to be quite a conscientious carer, at least when it came to terrorizing the nurses and interfering with the doctors. Watson supposed it was Holmes's way of feeling he was helping, when really he was adding another layer of anxiety to the process of recovery.

Under the pillows Watson could feel the hard rectangular outline of the two books. He had had some close calls with nurses, having to shove them in various positions to avoid notice, sometimes down his pyjama shirt. Holmes had watched this in obvious amusement and didn't seem to care whether Watson ever read them; he was content to witness his discomfiture.

"You seem to be making a speedy recovery, Mr. Watson." The doctor said finally, standing back and removing the stethoscope from beneath Watson's shirt. Holmes was watching them both closely from his chair as though he didn't think it was necessary for the doctor to be quite so close to Watson or touch him quite so much either. If he could have done it standing at a metre's distance with thick rubber gloves on, Watson didn't doubt Holmes would have preferred it thoroughly.

"Doctor." Watson interjected. "Doctor Watson."

"Oh, yes. Of course..." The doctor said mildly, putting the stethoscope back in his bag. " _Doctor_ Watson."

Holmes visibly bristled in his chair. Watson narrowed his eyes at him, hoping to discourage him from taking it upon himself to defend Watson's honour. "When do you think I will be well enough to return home?" Watson said nonchalantly to the doctor.

Holmes straightened up slightly in his chair. The doctor turned slowly to Watson, looking thoughtful. "I should think you'll be well enough to travel in a day or two. I'm sure you're eager to be amongst familiar, friendly faces." He glanced dubiously at Holmes.

Watson had had no visitors. He had an inkling Holmes had warned them all off, but also the entire business surrounding Watson's injury made people distinctly uncomfortable. People didn't like to see what had seemed like a happy, quiet couple fall apart in that violent, grim fashion. Watson was satisfied to let people shy away from him until he felt strong enough to take their sympathies and curiosity.

He shivered slightly beneath the sheets. The doctor noticed. "Are you cold? I can call the nurse to bring you another blanket."

"Oh, no." Watson said quickly. "I'm fine. Thank you."

"Very well." The doctor got to his feet and picked up his bag. "Good morning, gentlemen."

He gave a little bow to Watson and a less genial jerk of his head to Holmes who did not respond. He left and closed the door behind him.

"Snooty bourgeoisie pig." Holmes said sourly, glaring after him. "Sticking his fingers everywhere like a child in some sort of toy shop."

Watson didn't reply. He stared straight ahead, feeling slightly numb all of a sudden.

"And you weren't precisely discouraging him." Holmes said, glancing beadily at Watson.

Watson shrugged. He stared at his bound arm, flexing his stiff fingers absentmindedly.

"Watson." Holmes said irritably. "You're not listening."

Watson glanced up at Holmes's slightly flushed face. "You're talking some nonsense about me flirting with the doctor because he happened to have to touch me to do his job properly." He said flatly. "Of course I'm not listening."

Holmes frowned at the irritation in Watson's voice. He sat forward in his seat. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Watson said quietly. "I'm thinking about home."

He had been dreading leaving hospital. The thought of going back to his and Mary's house and having to go through the motions of clearing it out and selling it made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. It was a gloomy prospect. He was finally getting what he wanted. He would be with Holmes and their secret was safe. He couldn't explain the hollowness he felt.

He could see Holmes frowning at him. He didn't suppose Holmes would understand. "It'll be nice to be home." Watson said, a little too heartily.

"Yes, it will be." Holmes said, in almost a suspicious tone. He was studying Watson's face, searching for a clue which would explain Watson's sudden change in disposition.

Watson arranged his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression. He should have known better than to try and cloud Holmes's sharp observations but he didn't feel like being interrogated.

"Holmes, stop staring at me like that." He said crossly, flattening himself against the pillows. "Go for a walk or something. You're spending too much time cooped up in here."

**oOo**

Watson stared dully up at the darkened ceiling, watching shadows stretch sluggishly across it. He had been awake for hours. Holmes was snoring softly in his chair, his head leaning limply on his shoulder. Watson had pretended to be asleep when Holmes had arrived back from dinner.

Without his usual task of keeping sentinel Holmes had fallen asleep almost immediately and Watson had been relieved. Holmes's exhaustion was evident. His eyes were shadowed and lined, his skin had become papery white and he yawned almost constantly. Watson wanted Holmes to sleep. Even if he didn't intend to himself.

He sighed and moved restlessly under the covers. A corner of one of the books stuck into his shoulder. He looked irritably at Holmes's sleeping figure, though it was difficult to be angry with him when he looked so sweet. His eyes traced the line of Holmes's slightly parted lips. And fuckable.

He sat up a little straighter in bed. The book was still sticking into his flesh. He glanced at the clock on the table beside his bed. It was only 3 am. He sighed. He was bored and uncomfortable. He didn't want to sleep but he didn't know how much longer he could keep his eyes open.

Almost absentmindedly he slid his hand under his pillow and pulled out one of the books. He stared at the cover. It was plainly covered in red leather with no title. Obviously it was not meant to catch the eye. Watson swallowed and glanced at Holmes. Holmes was still fast asleep; there was a little damp patch of drool on his shoulder. He didn't suppose he was going to wake any time soon.

Watson slowly opened the cover. He was apprehensive that his eyes might be hit with some highly coloured pornographic image but there were instead several blank pages and then a title page with a very small title. _James and the Prince._ There was no author.

Watson felt his eyebrows raise almost on their own accord as he turned the page and was greeted with a very detailed black and white drawing of a young, handsome man lying spread-eagle on a magnificent four-poster bed. His erect cock was buried in the mouth of a second man who was nude on all fours. Watson slammed the book shut. His cheeks burnt fiercely.

No. He couldn't do it. It was too depraved. It just wasn't his inclination.

He looked at Holmes but didn't put the book away yet. He bit his lip. He could feel faint pulses of arousal in his crotch. It would be a stupid lie to tell himself that he wasn't aroused by the picture and the story that might accompany it, but he was blushing like a schoolboy. He considered himself upright but perhaps he was just bashful.

He took a slow, steady breath and opened the book again. He stared at the pornographic image. He let his eyes roam over it. He felt slightly faint with embarrassment and shame. What if Mary could see-

Well. _That_ was never going to happen so he needn't worry, he supposed...

He could feel his manhood stirring beneath the covers. He hastily turned the page. Chapter One. He swallowed, his throat suddenly felt very dry. He began to read. The writing itself was of dreadful quality, the writer was obviously trying as hastily as possible to rush over small details such as who, what, when, where and why and move onto the sexual nature of the story.

The sexual nature of the story was a series of highly detailed encounters between a Prince and his manservant 'James'. A very sweet, handsome, submissive manservant who apparently liked to be bent over the piano amongst other hard surfaces.

Watson was surprised and slightly ashamed to find that he was hurrying through the early paragraphs in search of the pornographic content.

He found it without much difficulty. The string of words made his insides twist with disgust and intense arousal. The writer didn't have abundant skill but they coloured the image highly. He... she, whoever they were, left no detail undescribed. Watson could see the sweet, submissive young manservant being undressed. The Prince's hands all over his slim figure. The Prince, stronger and sturdier (but also handsome, the writer added pointedly) took total control of James. James was pushed onto his back, firmly into the soft, fine covers of the Prince's own grand bed. He was naked, panting and drenched with sweat. His hair was already dishevelled; his eyes were dazed with lust. The Prince unbuttoned himself, let his breeches slide down his thighs. His cock was damp and hard-

A soft moan broke the ringing silence of the hospital. Watson's eyes widened and he pressed a hand to his mouth. He hadn't realised how hard he had become himself. He could feel his cock pressing against his pyjama trousers. He bit his lip. He didn't want to touch himself. He cringed at the thought of himself masturbating to this filth like a common creep. But he would have been lying if he had said he didn't want to.

He forced himself to sit still. He was too curious to stop reading. He turned the page.

The Prince undressed himself and stood over the manservant on the bed. James was spread across the bed like a virgin waiting to be deflowered. The Prince smirked at his prize. His prize's cock. (Watson's fingers tightened around the book spine). James's cock was thick and long and damp with pre-cum. The Prince lowered himself to his knees on the bed and gently spread James's shaking legs.

Watson had to pause and check his breathing. It had become quite loud and rough. He placed the book on the bed covers and slid his hand underneath, resting it on his pubic bone. He rubbed himself gently but not quite low enough to satisfy his now aching arousal.

He moved his knees upward so the book was on an angle. He could read it comfortably without moving until he had to turn the page.

The Prince was lowering his lips to James's manhood now. He was licking the dampness away while James writhed and moaned and thrust his slim hips desperately upward. (Watson moved his fingers a little lower). The Prince took in his lover's helpless, sinewy figure already slick with his own fluids. He gently licked his way down James's quivering pubis to his hardened bulge and teased him but did not take him yet fully in his mouth. James began to beg and whimper for more. The Prince gently slid his mouth over the head of James's aching appendage-

"Mmf." Watson had to grit his teeth to keep from moaning aloud.

He finally allowed himself to take himself in hand. He couldn't resist the temptation any longer, less the pressure. He slid his fingers gently around his own 'aching appendage' and arched his hips slightly at the burst of pleasure between his hips. He glanced down at the page, but he was too breathless, too aroused to read properly now. Certain words hit him. _Suck. Damp. Moan. Arch. Lick. Aching. Groaning. Begging. Leaking._ They washed over him. He felt fiercely, furiously excited. His arousal almost hurt it was so concentrated.

Soon he couldn't read at all, he was too lost in his own mounting ecstasy. "Ohhh." He moaned throatily, trying to keep his voice lowered when he felt like screaming.

He rolled his hips upward as he mounted the zenith of the pressure. He seemed to stop breathing completely as he came. He tried not to cry out as the moisture burst between his thighs. The book slid off the bed and landed with a dull thud on the floor. His stiff, wounded arm caught on the blanket and twinged with pain but it barely registered in Watson's mind.

He exhaled heavily and flattened himself against the mattress in a state of pleasured exhaustion. His whole body was damp with sweat (and other fluids). He hadn't masturbated for some time and certainly not in such a rough manner. His mind was branded with the book's images. The images of the two men together, touching and pleasuring each other.

He removed his hand from under the covers and concentrated on calming his breathing. He pushed himself up against his pillows and adjusted his arm more comfortably on top of the blankets. He lay back comfortably against the pillows and closed his eyes-

"Should I be feeling threatened, Watson?"

Watson's eyes flew open.

Holmes smiled fondly at his damp, dishevelled friend. "You seem quite smitten with our friends James and... _The Prince_."

Watson blinked at him. "I... I-ah- He stammered, blushing furiously. "W-what-

Holmes laughed and stretched in his chair with a wide yawn. "Lucky I'm a light sleeper or I would have missed it all." He grinned. "Wouldn't that have been a shame?"

"H-Holmes..." Watson spluttered, almost too furious to form words. "You... are... _insufferable_ -

Holmes just grinned wider and practically skipped to pick up the fallen book.


	27. Undone

Holmes had admittedly been more than delighted when he'd discovered Watson that morning. Not only because he was treated to the rather lovely sight of Watson playing with himself but also because it proved to him, at least partly that his plan was working. His 'treatment' of such.

Now Watson was returning a treatment of his own: the silent treatment. It didn't concern Holmes particularly. He had been on the receiving end of Watson's bad tempers often enough to know they were often short-lived and followed by Watson making guilt ridden love to him like it was the last thing he'd ever do.

Holmes had a suspicion that Watson was sulking.

Holmes glanced up at him. He was staring stonily ahead, his lips thin. The two books were lying innocuously on the table beside the bed. Watson had ejected them from his bed, something which Holmes found rather amusing but Watson certainly hadn't.

Holmes thought it was best to turn Watson's mind onto other things while he was still a little weaker than usual, and hopefully coax him out of his bad humour. He cleared his throat. "So, the doctor said you might be well enough to travel tomorrow." He said bracingly.

Watson looked at him dully. "Yes." He said coldly.

Holmes was surprised he wasn't more enthusiastic; he thought Watson would be dying to return home. "You'll finally be able to piss without an audience." He added.

Watson narrowed his eyes at him. "Do you always have to be so very vulgar?" He said irritably.

Holmes smirked. "That's rich."

Watson flushed. "Are you ever going to let me forget it?" He demanded, his eyes flashing angrily. "Yes, so I am indeed human and you've proven that I'm just as perverted and oversexed as you. How long are you going to torment me?"

Holmes was surprised. "I didn't do it to torment you, Watson. Or embarrass you." He frowned. "Is that really what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" Watson said agitatedly, turning restlessly towards him. "How do you expect pornography to help a broken collar bone and-

He broke off, giving an irritated shrug.

"Believe what you will." Holmes said coldly, feeling considerably less fond towards Watson all of a sudden.

Silence fell on both of them. A cold, uncomfortable silence that neither of them felt inclined to break.

A few moments later, Holmes decided to leave Watson alone to brood and clear his head outside.

**oOo**

That evening Holmes decided to busy himself packing Watson's few belongings for returning home, partly because he needed something to distract himself and also partly because he knew it could either irritate Watson greatly or send him into transports of remorse. Either reaction was fine with Holmes.

Packing also made the fact Watson was coming home somehow more concrete. Despite Watson's moods and sulks Holmes was eager to have Watson all to himself again. He could sense that underneath Watson's strong facade he was suffering more than he would admit. He was trying to internalize everything he had undergone in the past weeks and Holmes guessed that was why he was having the terrible dreams.

Watson watched him from his bed, glowering at Holmes the entire time and not responding to Holmes's questions with more than ill-tempered grunts.

Holmes could feel himself becoming increasingly irritated with him and his foul temper and felt very much like slapping him across the face for causing such a fuss over one tiny piece of pornography. He refrained, but with difficulty.

"Careful, Holmes." Watson said crossly as Holmes was folding his remaining shirts into a bag. "You're rumpling them."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Why don't you get out of bed and do it yourself if I'm not doing it to her majesty's tastes?"

Watson narrowed his eyes at him and Holmes glowered back challengingly. And then, to Holmes's amazement, Watson threw back the covers. "Fine, I will." He said irritably.

He gingerly stepped down onto the cold hospital floor with his bare feet and, dressed only in a very thin white hospital nightshirt padded over to a very surprised Holmes. He knelt down by the suitcase, holding his injured arm awkwardly out of the way.

"The nurse won't be pleased if she finds you out of bed." Holmes said meekly, as Watson began to refold all his shirts.

Watson sent him a dirty look and kept folding. Holmes shrugged. He helped himself to an eyeful of Watson's thighs instead, feeling content to let Watson do whatever distracted him from being cross and grumpy.

"I'll have to have Mrs Hudson wash all of this when we..." Watson hesitated. "When we get there."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "There? Home?"

Watson bit his lip visibly, Holmes felt his stomach swoop.

Watson began to tuck his shirts back into his bag; Holmes noticed that his hand had begun to tremble slightly.

"Whatever is the matter, Watson?" He chided gently, laying his hand on Watson's.

Watson paused, looking at Holmes with tired grey eyes. "I'm dreading it," He said in a low voice. He lowered his eyes and continued packing his clothes as though Holmes hadn't spoken.

Holmes stared at him, baffled. "But Baker Street is your home-

"It's also the place Mary shot herself." Watson said coldly, taking Holmes aback.

For once he didn't have a reply to that. It was the first time Watson had said Mary's name since... that night. Holmes moved uncomfortably where he was. He couldn't bear the thought that Watson might grow to hate the only home they had ever shared. The home they had worked in, laughed in, made love in.

After a while Watson sighed, dropping the shirt he was holding and turning to Holmes. At close range, it was obvious to see how exhausted and weary he had become. "I'm sorry. Of course I'm glad. It's just so difficult to forget-

"It's hardly been a week, Watson." Holmes interrupted. "Things will be better in time."

Watson laughed humourlessly and closed the bag. "I hope so. At the moment I feel tired. I feel tired because I can't sleep, I can't sleep because when I do I am tormented by images of something I could have prevented."

"You could _not_ have prevented it." Holmes said angrily, staring at Watson fiercely. "God, is that what you've been brooding about all week? You're blaming yourself like some tragic hero?"

Watson glared at him. "I'm no hero, tragic or otherwise. I did not love my wife, but that did not give me the right to drive her to suicide. I must have failed somewhere, failed terribly to have broken her heart so viciously."

"This obsession of yours with blaming yourself is more than pathetic." Holmes retorted coldly. "You're a brave and good man. You didn't hold that gun to your wife's temple, you didn't pull the trigger."

Watson shook his head wordlessly and struggled to his feet. Holmes gripped his wrist angrily and pulled him back down. Watson lost his balance and landed on his arse, his shirt yanked up about his hips. He was wearing nothing underneath and Holmes raised his eyebrows, hardly able to hide a smirk.

"Holmes..." Watson flushed, scrambling onto his knees.

"Still so bashful, even after your little playtime last night?" Holmes teased him, not letting go of his wrist.

"Holmes." Watson said reproachfully.

"I'm sorry," Holmes said, pulling Watson closer so their lips almost touched. "It's silly for you to be so embarrassed." He said softly. "You looked so... sweet." His voice was so low it was almost a growl.

Watson was blushing furiously. He leant forward and grazed Holmes's lips with his, Holmes slid his hand up Watson's thigh, under the hem of his nightshirt.

"Footsteps." Holmes hissed suddenly, breaking away and springing to his feet before Watson had time to blink.

A moment later the door flew open on its hinges and a nurse bustled in laden with a breakfast tray. Watson blinked dazedly up at her, tugging hastily on his nightshirt.

"Doctor Watson!" She exclaimed, putting the tray on the table and her fists on her hips. "What on earth are you doing on the floor?"

Watson stumbled to his feet. "I was just-

"You'll catch your death." She said reprovingly, ushering him back to bed.

"Strange wouldn't it be, to catch your death in a hospital?" Holmes said dryly from his chair. "I wonder if it's possible to sue for such an occurrence?"

The nurse scowled at him. "And you should be more responsible, Mr. Holmes." She said accusingly. "Letting him crawl about on the floor like that."

Holmes crossed his legs and at her. Watson shook his head exasperatedly at him.

The nurse tutted and set about fussing over Watson while Holmes made faces at her back.

**oOo**

Watson knew he'd never last another night without sleep. He had dwelt so long on the dreams that he had become quite terrified of the prospect of falling asleep. He had a feeling that Holmes knew how frightened he was, he was sitting sentinel in his chair, his eyes always everywhere but on Watson. But Watson knew he was watching.

Watson watched as the sun disappeared below the windowsill and felt a familiar pang of dread. Soon he would have to sleep.

He ate his dinner in silence and listened only partly to Holmes's gentle banter, about stupid pointless things which somehow comforted Watson despite his uneasy mind. He didn't want to speak about Mary, or Baker Street, or what had happened that night. Stupid pointless things were far more comforting.

By the time he had finished eating his eyes were hardly able to stay open on their own accord. He slid down under the covers, his whole body felt heavy with fatigue. He could see Holmes was still watching him, or watching over him rather.

Watson's eyes drooped; he let them close, forcing his mind full of all things Holmes to fend off the impending darkness. Holmes's smile was so infuriating, always looking like he knew something nobody else did. It always reached his eyes, lighting them up, lighting up his entire face. His eyes were always so bright. His eyes were always so warm, so brown. So seductive. Like he was undressing Watson with a single look. Holmes's mouth was so full, so kissable. Holmes's mouth always felt soft when Watson's kissed it. It tasted like tobacco and sugar. He always put too much sugar in his porridge. Watson was always tempted to make some pathetic little comment about him being sweet enough when he saw him shovelling the stuff into his breakfast, but he knew Holmes would never let him forget it if he did. Holmes's legs were tanned and scarred from various accidents and exploits. They were firm but slim. Slimmer than Watson's. When Watson pressed himself against Holmes, he loved rocking against his thighs, his legs. Holmes's hands-

Watson jerked, his eyes flew open. He had fallen asleep for a moment. He'd felt himself drifting. He felt the dull ache in his arm evaporate, the strange dreamy sensation invade his mind's eye.

He blinked confusedly. He was standing in a long hallway. Corridor? It was made of stone. It looked strange, it looked old-fashioned. Incredibly old-fashioned. There were candles fastened to the wall instead of oil lamps and strange, moth eaten tapestries showing various obscure scenes.

Watson gazed down the corridor. He could see a door at the very end. Watson began towards it, his heart beginning to thud in his chest.

He could hear the soft roar of the candles as he passed them and the thumping of his blood in his ears. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know what he would find behind the door. Or if he wanted to know. He didn't entirely know why he was going towards it, his feet had seemed to have decided on their own accord.

He reached it and stared at the polished wood. The iron doorhandle. His heart beat harder, he could feel his face becoming warm. He reached a hand to the handle and pushed it down. The door swung slowly forward on its hinges. He almost dreaded to look but he couldn't stop himself.

To his surprise, and slight unease he found not a terrible spectre or an image of Mary's death but just a room. A dimly lit room. There were rugs thrown across the floor and portraits hanging on almost every accessible surface. In the centre of the room was a bed, a huge bed hung with some sort of handsome cloth.

Watson was unnerved by the sight of the gently burning candles, the shadows darting across the decorated floor and walls. It was a strange place; Watson had never set eyes on it before. He felt confused and a little frightened. He wondered where Holmes was-

Suddenly, a hand touched his waist and he gasped in fright, slapping away the figure behind him.

He fell back, the sudden fear pulsing through him like poison. He stared into the face of his assailant. His stomach dropped in shock.

"Hello, John."

He was handsome. Very handsome. And young. His face was filled with a strange childish sweetness. He smiled at Watson and Watson felt his heart flutter in spite of himself.

"Who are you?" He asked confusedly, though somewhere in his foggy mind he thought he recognized the boy's face. His sweet, innocent, handsome face.

The boy- _man_ just laughed. Watson saw his eyes flicker from Watson's face to his shoulder and Watson became conscious of someone standing close behind him. He flinched as a warm hand touched his neck. His eyes widened as he felt someone press themself against his back. Especially when it became obvious it was a man.

"What are you doing?" He breathed indignantly as hands found his waist. "Unhand me." Even as he said it he realised how weak it sounded.

He could feel the hands on his waist, stroking him gently through his nightshirt. He forced himself to pull away.

"Oh, John. Don't pretend you don't want to play." Came a second voice. Deeper, more masculine than the young man's. It sent goosebumps across Watson's neck like someone had breathed the words across his skin.

He turned to the second man and felt his eyes widen. He was going mad. He was surely going mad. But even as he stared at the second man's taller, sturdier physique and unshaven face he knew that it could be no mistaking who he was.

"I'm losing my mind." He said weakly as the Prince stepped towards him, his eyes burning with something that vaguely unnerved an outnumbered Watson.

His eyes widened as hands were coiled around his waist again. "You're the Prince." He said, staring at the man who was now watching him like a cat watched a piece of raw meat. "From the book-

The taller man laughed and put his lips to Watson's neck, his tongue flitted between his lips, caressing Watson's heated skin. "Ugh." Watson said softly, putting a hand up to touch the Prince's hair. It was thick and tangled but felt silky, sort of like someone else's he knew-

Watson gave a gasp of surprise as the second man, the younger man- _James_ pressed himself to Watson's back, running his hands over Watson's chest. Watson was very conscious of how thin and insubstantial his shirt was. He was also very conscious of how he was pinned between two men. Neither of whom were Holmes.

"S-stop." He stammered, pushing the Prince away with what little strength he could muster and escaping the caressing hands that threatened to bring him undone.

The two men watched him lustfully as Watson backed away to the bed, feeling dazed and terribly aroused. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair, trying desperately to clear his mind and think. But the air was so thick, the lighting was so dim, the men were so handsome and-

"Oh, no please." He said faintly as they began to move towards him. "If Holmes found us he'd be most upset. I really shouldn't-

"Hush," Said James in a low voice, pressing a finger to Watson's lips as he neared him. "Holmes wants you to."

"He does?" Watson said confusedly, wondering when precisely Holmes had spoken to James and the Prince and why he had never told him.

"Mmm." James growled into his ear, almost bringing Watson to his knees.

He sunk down onto the bed. He could feel his cock beginning to harden to the touches, the caresses of his chest, his waist, his-

"Ah!" He burst out, as James's hand suddenly slid around the growing hardness between his legs.

He spread his legs without completely meaning to and James blinked at him, smiling sweetly as he began to stroke him gently and agonizingly slowly.

The Prince, who Watson had almost completely forgotten in his confusion of pleasure and panic, suddenly knelt behind him on the bed, his hands resting on Watson's chest. His fingers gently gripped the material of Watson's nightshirt and with one smooth sweep he pulled it over Watson's head and deposited it on the floor beside the bed.

Watson gave an involuntary squeak of surprise.

"Shush." The Prince said soothingly, his hands moving slowly down Watson's trembling stomach to his now fully erect cock, still in the hands of James who was giving Watson such dirty looks that Watson wondered how he could have ever thought him 'innocent'.

James let his hands drop and Watson was chagrined to find that he sincerely regretted the absence.

He almost immediately forgot his disappointment as James began to rub his already cold hardened nipples with the palm of his hand. Watson thought everything seemed slightly blurry before his eyes. He felt utterly dazed, utterly weakened by the new sensation.

The Prince began to stroke his length as James had down moments before. His movements were stronger and firmer, Watson could feel them through his entire frame as the strange, bubbling desire exploded over him. The Prince kept him pinned against him by his waist and Watson could feel his hips beginning to rock in time with the strokes. He felt lost. He felt undone.

"Ohhh this is so wrong." He moaned, as James began to tease his hardened nipples with his tongue. "So damned wrong. But-ughh _Gods_ \- it feels so g-good-

He heard the Prince chuckle behind him. "See, it's not such a very bad thing, is it?" He rumbled into Watson's hair. "Pleasure isn't such a very bad thing..."

As he said it, he began to move his hand faster over Watson's now damp cock. Watson gave a little whimper and arched his hips in pleasure. "Ooh," He said weakly.

James leant back with a soft laugh. "Holmes would want you to feel..." He leant forward, his pretty young face filled with base lust. "Good."

He kissed Watson. Watson opened his mouth partly out of shock and found James's tongue inside his mouth. It felt far too good to kiss a man who wasn't Holmes. He rolled his hips forward, moaning against James's lips and tossing his head slightly in his mounting pleasure.

"God," He moaned. "God. This- Ah- This- _Oh!_ Oh God _yes_!"

He bit down on James's lip to stop himself from crying out any more. He threw his head back, as he felt a rush of heat and pressure between his legs. The pleasure completely overcame him. He heard a cry of ecstasy leave his mouth but it sounded strangely distant.

He fell back onto the soft surface of the bed with a gasp, as something hard came into contact with the back of his head.

His eyes flew open. For a moment the room spun wildly before his eyes and then it came sharply, almost unpleasantly into focus. The hospital, the hospital ceiling, the hospital floor, the hospital walls, the hospital blankets, the hospital bed, the-

"Ouch. Hospital bed headboard." He grumbled, struggling upright and rubbing the back of his head where he'd slammed it against the wood in his passion.

"Are you alright?" Holmes was watching him from his chair, looking serene.

"I'm f-fine." Watson said unsteadily, staring around.

Sunlight was pouring in the window; someone had pulled the curtains back. Something bounded in Watson's chest. He had slept the whole night!

He blinked at Holmes. "I didn't wake up." He said in wonder. "You didn't wake me up."

Holmes glanced up from lighting his pipe. "You didn't seem to need my help in the dream you were having." He said, with a knowing glint in his brown eyes.

Watson felt his cheeks redden. Oh God. He'd cried out in his sleep... What had he said? Had he cried out the Prince or James's name? Had he moaned or thrust about or begged for it _harder, harder please_...?

He moved uncomfortably in bed, stretching his stiff legs. It was then that he felt something unpleasantly damp and sticky between his legs. "Oh my God." He said, putting a hand to his face with a pained expression. "I just had a sexual dream about two fictional characters."


	28. Home

Watson couldn't remember the last instance when he had had to rely wholly on someone else to take care of him. He had never been bedridden for longer than a day. If that. He had never had to depend on someone to bring him food, hold his hand (as such) just so he could relieve himself, stand and watch when he washed and dressed so he didn't fall over and break his neck.

He had learnt to dull himself to the humiliation of being treated like an invalid. Or he had certainly tried to. He felt he had unquestionably had more than his fair share of humble pie.

On one hand, there was no one in the world he'd rather rely on than Holmes, but on the other it was confronting to have absolutely no mystery to their lives when Watson already had to piss with an audience like an incontinent old man.

He was willing to excuse, and even appreciate Holmes's overbearing, slightly alarming method of care while in hospital but he definitely could not stand the thought of being treated like a child when they were home. Especially Holmes's strand of demented mollycoddling that would likely result in injury.

He had made up his mind somewhere in between waking up covered in his own... fluids and facing Holmes's irritating, all-knowing expression, that he was going to start taking steps to become self-sufficient once more.

With a self-conscious cringe, he stepped gingerly down onto the hospital floor, horribly conscious of the sticky dampness between his crotch and legs. He glanced hurriedly at the closed door. He could hear the low buzz of voices that forever clouded the hospital halls, but there were no footsteps that threatened to approach his door. He took a deep breath and, before he could change his mind, took the bed shirt firmly in his fist and yanked it sharply upward.

Rather than come over his head in the fluid motion he had imagined, it became caught on his sling and refused to go any further than his elbow.

" _Damn_." Watson breathed, tugging ineffectually at it with his uninjured hand.

It had looped itself under his arm and was effectively pinned in the space between his torso and the bulky sling. The harder he clawed at it, the tighter it became lodged. The other half had gone as far as his shoulder but would not stretch over his head no matter how hard he pulled it.

With a defeated sigh, he gathered it up and tired to shrug it down again. It wouldn't budge.

He frowned down at his now half naked form and the twisted shirt stretched across his chest and injured arm. He tugged again. Harder. Aside from a painful surge in his shoulder, nothing happened. He felt a hot wave of panic go over him.

"Shit." He hissed, gripping the shirt forcefully between his finger and thumb and ripping it with all his might downwards. "Shit, shit, shit."

He exhaled in frustration, glancing again at the door and then at the clean hospital shirt he had intended to change into whilst Holmes was out. He'd sent him on an errand to buy a paper, just so he could change without Holmes staring at him with his occasional smirks and remarks.

Holmes had decided that it was somehow necessary for him to personally dress and undress Watson, despite Watson's complaints. Watson was powerless to defend himself against Holmes's voyeurism. He certainly didn't want to complain to the nurse and incur Holmes's wrath but his protests to Holmes fell on deaf ears. He had also begun to discover that his body- his traitorous, depraved body- had began to betray him whenever Holmes watched him undress. He could feel the blood rushing to his groin and it was all he could do to resist getting a pounding erection when Holmes watched him the way he did with his steady, unsmiling but vaguely amused gaze.

What would Holmes say if he could see Watson's present predicament? _Ugh._ He couldn't even stand to think about it. Holmes thinking he was repressed and prudish enough to need pornography was bad enough but to have to rely on Holmes to dress and undress him like a doll was too humiliating.

He stared down at the stained shirt. He grit his teeth and, biting hard against the inevitable pain that would explode in his bound arm, tore viciously at the shirt.

"Ah!" He cried out as the pain hit him harder than he'd anticipated. It felt like he was trying to tear the bone through the flesh. It ached horribly. He began to fear that if he pulled any harder, he'd end up doing irreversible damage to his arm. "Oh my God, why me?" He said in a pained voice.

He bit his lip, staring at the door. Any moment he's going to come back, he thought in dull horror, any moment he's going to come back and find me like this. If Holmes wanted proof that Watson was losing his marbles then this would certainly suffice.

As though on cue, the door creaked on its hinges. In a blind state of panic, Watson flung himself back into bed and threw the covers over himself.

"Watson?" Holmes said as he entered, holding the newspaper to his chest. "What's wrong?" He frowned at Watson's face. Watson tried to force his expression into what he hoped was nonchalance.

"Nothing," Watson said quickly. Perhaps too quickly, Holmes raised an eyebrow, his eyes glancing around the room. Watson was uncomfortably aware that his half-removed shirt was completely visible from where Holmes was standing. He tried to wriggle himself out of sight under the covers.

"Well, here's your paper." Holmes said slowly, dropping it on the bed. He glanced around the room again and then at Watson. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What were you doing in here before I came in?"

"Nothing." Watson choked, feeling himself becoming hot under Holmes's fierce gaze.

"Watson," Holmes said flatly. "You are not quite as agile as you evidently believe yourself." He walked around the bed, his eyes raking the floors and walls. "I saw you leaping about. What on earth were you up to?"

"I-I..." Watson stammered, sinking lower under the blankets. "Nothing."

Holmes fixed his narrowed eyes on Watson's flushed face. "You're lying. I know when you're lying." He glanced at the floor and then at the window. He marched across and pulled back the curtains, staring at the bare windowsill as though he had expected to see something hidden there.

He turned back to Watson, his hands on his hips. "What are you hiding?" He knelt down and looked under Watson's bed.

Watson rolled his eyes. "What do you expect to find? My secret liqueur stash?"

Holmes stood up. "I thought we decided no more secrets or lies." He said in a hard voice.

Watson sighed exasperatedly. "There's nothing." He said crossly, knowing that it was useless to lie to Holmes, especially when Holmes had already decided that he was guilty.

Holmes stared at him for a moment and then slowly sat down on the edge of the hospital bed, his eyes boring into Watson's. "What is it? Just tell me. I promise I won't be angry." He paused. " _Were_ you hiding alcohol?"

"Oh for pity's sake." Watson said, covering his face in frustration. "There is _nothing_. I was stretching my legs. Is that against regulation?"

Holmes's eyes travelled down to the covers. Watson didn't dare move, he could see the bunched up mass of his shirt out of the corner of his eye.

"Forgive me for doubting your word, Watson." Holmes said calmly, finally looking up at Watson. "But this is for your own good-

Before Watson had time to protest, Holmes put his hand under the covers and dragged them back, standing up as he did. Watson let out a cry of surprise, trying fruitlessly to grab the covers back.

"Holmes!" He said reproachfully, trying to cover himself with the ruined shirt.

Holmes's eyebrows were raised, almost disappearing completely into his hairline as he stared at Watson's partly naked form. His eyes were wide with surprise. "Watson!" He said after a moment.

"Give me back the covers." Watson said through gritted teeth. "Do you have to humiliate me at every possible opportunity?"

Holmes's eyes travelled up Watson's bare legs to the twisted shirt. "Have you been at it again?" Holmes said, his eyes glinting amusedly.

Watson's face coloured. "Shut up." He snapped, snatching back the blankets. "Why do you have to be such a bloody fool all of the time?"

Holmes looked unfazed. "Don't be so temperamental." He snorted.

Watson could feel the anger inexplicably rising in his chest. He gripped his fists, trying to stem away the irritation, the fury at Holmes and his constant jibes. His total lack of sensitivity or understanding. Watson tried to breathe deeply to calm himself but his breath shuddered.

"Stand up." Holmes said, beckoning to Watson.

Watson glowered at him, his cheeks burning with his humiliation. He didn't move.

"Do you want me to help you or not?" Holmes said impatiently, tapping his foot.

"No." Watson snarled, ripping the blankets back up to his chest with some difficulty. "I do not want your help. I don't want your pornography or your demented ideas of what I need." He was breathing hard; he had so much he wanted to say to Holmes. He had so much anger. And he didn't know where it had suddenly sprung from.

Holmes looked blank. He didn't seem to understand it either. His hands slowly fell down by his sides. "Why are you angry with me?" He asked. "What have I done?" He paused. "Is this about the pornography again?" He raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"No!" Watson burst out in frustration. He paused, pushing a hand through his hair. "Yes. Yes, it is about that. But not just that. It's about- It's about-

He lapsed into silence, staring stonily ahead. He couldn't explain his feelings. He didn't want to. He just wanted Holmes to _know_.

Holmes smiled very slightly. "You know. I've been waiting all week for you to be angry with me."

Watson frowned at him. "What?"

Holmes shrugged and went over to his chair. "You've been freakishly composed as of late. Even after I plied you with pornography and took advantage of your present emotional wreckage you were _ludicrously_ controlled."

Watson blinked, forgetting his anger for a moment. "Was this all some sort of plan-

Holmes scoffed. "Please. I don't think that far ahead." He examined his nails absentmindedly. "I don't scheme."

Watson narrowed his eyes at him. "So you decided you'd just prey on me sexually when I'm at my weakest?" His arm was beginning to throb but he ignored it, he finally had Holmes telling the truth.

Holmes looked at him without warmth. "I am sorry that your opinion of me is so low." He said quietly.

Silence fell. Watson's eyes trailed away to the window. He didn't want to look at Holmes's face. His heart gave a painful throb. He suddenly felt like crying. He hastily blinked his eyes, not willing to let himself break when he'd been so strong, so together all week.

"No one said it would be easy." He heard himself say into the silence.

Holmes didn't reply. He was fumbling with his pipe, passing it from hand to hand in an agitated fashion. Watson glanced at him. He looked as though he wanted to say something. Something that he knew would upset Watson. Watson sighed inwardly.

"What is it, Holmes?" He asked loudly.

Holmes looked at him vaguely. "Oh, nothing." He said. There was a brief silence. "Well..."

"Oh, here we go." Muttered Watson, sinking down in bed.

"I have some news. From... ah, Lestrade." Holmes said in an almost awkward fashion. "He believes that the..." He cleared his throat uncertainly. "The results of the autopsy have been determined." He finished quickly.

He held Watson's eye, clearly not wanting to seem like he was shying away from the subject. Watson stared back at him, his mind strangely blank. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to feel. He felt numb.

"Oh," He said at length. He lowered his eyes, staring at the covers of his bed.

"They'll come and speak with you." Holmes said. "As soon as you're home, they'll want to speak to you."

Watson nodded vaguely, not looking up. "I suppose they will."

Holmes bit his lip. He hadn't known what effect this news would have on Watson. He supposed this silence would have probably been the safest bet. Watson had become even more protective of his thoughts in the past week. Holmes tried to fend off the impending hurt that threatened to settle in his chest.

His wife has just died, he told himself sternly, he's not pushing you away. He glanced over at Watson's pensive figure. Not on purpose.

Holmes wondered if he _had_ been treating Watson badly. Perhaps he didn't understand. Perhaps he didn't care. He did care about Watson. At least he was sure of that.

Slowly, Watson threw the blankets back and stood up. His arms were painfully pinned to his sides and his injured arm was beginning to ache.

Holmes swallowed slightly, trying not to openly ogle his lover's figure but he was clearly distraught.

"Can you?" Watson said, raising his uninjured arm.

Holmes stood up and went to him, hardly trusting himself to be so close to Watson when he'd been deprived of sex all week. He slid his fingers under the shirt and gently tugged it up and over Watson's head. He dropped it onto the floor but didn't move back to his chair.

He stared up at Watson, wondering vaguely when love had become so difficult when the concept was so simple. Watson lowered his eyes. Holmes put his fingers gently under the doctor's chin and tilted his head so that his lips were inches from his. "Don't be embarrassed in front of me." He said levelly. "Never be embarrassed in front of me. And never, ever think that I would intentionally hurt you."

He touched his lips to Watson's. Watson didn't respond at first but when he felt Holmes's warm fingers touch his waist, he sunk into the kiss, almost sighing against Holmes's lips. It felt so familiar, so right. It calmed him, for a moment his emotions seemed less frayed and less abused.

He was just beginning to relax completely into the kiss, when suddenly the door began to open and Holmes's eyes widened in surprise. He sprang away from Watson; Watson grabbed the fallen shirt to cover himself just as the nurse walked through the doorway.

She stopped short, looking slowly from Holmes to Watson, glancing with raised eyebrows at Watson's shirt. "Sorry." She said. "I should have knocked."

Watson felt his cheeks burn.

"Yes, you should have." Holmes snapped, lifting the blankets for Watson to hide in.

Watson hastily took cover in bed, trying to restrain the traumatized look that threatened to creep onto his face.

"The doctor says you're leaving today." She said, unfazed by Holmes's rudeness. "I thought I'd come and help you sort out your things."

"We don't need your help." Holmes said sullenly.

"I was speaking to Doctor Watson." The nurse replied coolly, looking at Holmes with blatant dislike.

"I'm sure we'll be fine." Watson replied quickly, glancing at Holmes's stormy expression. "But if you could tell the doctor thank you for me, that would be much appreciated."

The nurse nodded and, with a last sour look at Holmes, took her leave.

"We'd best start packing your things or we'll be late." Holmes said after a brief silence.

"Late for what?" Watson replied, cocking an eyebrow.

Holmes knelt on Watson's bed. "Late for me." He said with a grin. "The only bed you should be naked in is mine."

He kissed Watson again. Watson hungrily reciprocated this time, his hands finding Holmes's hair and tangling themselves through his thick messy tangles. "Mmm."

Holmes slid his hand down the blankets to the obvious spread of Watson legs and pressed gently down on Watson's crotch. Watson let out a little moan against his lips.

Holmes broke away with a sigh. "I can't wait to get you home." He said huskily.

Watson's heart gave an uneasy leap in his chest at the word 'home'. He tried to force away the niggling doubts which refused to settle.

"Alright," He said in a businesslike manner. "Let's pack." He paused. "After I get dressed."

**oOo**

Holmes glanced at Watson for what could have been the hundredth time as they sped towards Baker Street. Watson looked smart in his clean, pressed clothes with his hair combed and looking otherwise very handsome and well put together besides his bandaged arm.

But he knew that Watson was still unhappy. He still didn't entirely know why, but he was getting close. Watson's burst of anger had proven that. He was confident that Watson's facade of strength would not hold for much longer.

He had brought the two books with them, despite Watson's protests. He wasn't confident that Watson was without need of them yet.

Watson had his cane between his legs, both hands resting on the top. He was gazing ahead, his face blank. Holmes wondered what he was thinking about.

"Stop staring at me, Holmes." Watson remarked, not looking at Holmes.

Holmes jumped. "I wasn't staring." He grumbled, looking away.

The remainder of the journey passed in silence. Holmes could see Watson's furrowed brow out of the corner of his eye. His worried expression.

They arrived at Baker Street minutes later and the cabriolet slowed by 221b. After it came to a complete stop, neither of them moved. Holmes finally ventured to look at Watson. Watson's knuckles were white, his eyes were moving anxiously from the door to his hands.

"Ready?" Holmes said, deciding not to draw attention to Watson's obvious anxiety.

Watson jerked slightly. "Yes." He replied in an unconvincingly calm voice, his face relaxing.

He hurriedly left the cab, Holmes followed him. They paid the driver and, with Holmes holding Watson's only suitcase, made the familiar journey upstairs.

Watson became increasingly unsettled as they neared the door. Holmes could hear his breathing hitching as they ascended and when they stopped so Holmes could find the key, he jiggled uneasily from foot to foot, glancing all about the room except at the door.

Holmes finally found the key and unlocked it. He went in first, taking the suitcase with him and dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. He glanced around and found Watson still standing outside in the hallway, his brow deeply furrowed and his chest heaving visibly.

Holmes went back and slowly held out his hand. "Come on." He said quietly. "You can't let fear control your life."

Hesitantly, Watson nodded. He touched Holmes's hand with his and let him guide him inside. As he stepped over the threshold and into the familiar surroundings, he felt the hand slip away. The weight of being back hit him like a blow to the jaw. He heard the breath catch in his throat.

Holmes began fussing about, sifting through mail and pretending to tidy things. He was clearly poised to catch Watson if he passed out or had a fit. It was slightly embarrassing but Watson felt gratified by his quiet support.

Slowly, he looked around, taking every inch of the room in. It looked the same. Everything looked the same. Everything was in its place. It _felt_ the same. It felt like Holmes's. It felt like theirs. Their space. Their safe haven.

His eyes travelled along the floor to the place where Mary's body had fallen. There was nothing to suggest anyone had ever lain there. The blood had been cleaned away.

As had the chair where one of Mary's shots had landed. His looked at the fireplace. Above the mantel was the obvious hole where the first bullet was lodged.

But that was it. There was no other evidence that anything out of the ordinary had ever occurred within these four walls.

"Are you alright?" Holmes asked gently, from beside him.

Watson determinedly avoided Holmes's eye. He couldn't bear to see the pity or concern there. "I think so." He said, frustrated by the tremble to his voice. "I mean-

He took a shaky breath, leaning heavily on his cane. "It's just a room. It's ridiculous to think- to even dwell on-

He touched his chest with an unsteady hand. He felt strangely out of breath. "I think I'll sit down." He said, nodding wearily at the nearest chair.

He collapsed into it. Holmes came hurriedly to his side, kneeling in front of him, his determination to not crowd or pressure Watson imploding on itself. "Look, if it's too hard to be here... we can go somewhere else." He said ardently, pressing both his hands onto Watson's. "It's just a house."

Watson shook his head. "No. No, it's ours, Holmes. It's our house. You know you don't mean that."

Holmes didn't want to leave Baker Street. It held the memories and sensations of years and years, but he wasn't so materialistic that he wasn't willing to sacrifice it for Watson. "I don't care about the house." He said firmly, placing his fingers under Watson's chin and forcing him to look at him. "I care about you. If you want to leave, we will leave."

Watson lowered his eyes. He could feel the pain and anger he had been carrying for the last ten days bubbling in his blood. He had been able to force the bile down deep inside of himself and push all thought of Mary to the back of his damaged mind, but Baker Street brought the hideous memories and feelings abruptly back. The panic he had experienced in his dreams was suddenly very real.

Holmes exhaled heavily beside him. He stood up and turned his back on Watson, wandering away to the window. "It's not your fault, Watson." He said through gritted teeth. "Stop blaming yourself. It's irritating."

There was silence. Holmes rested his hands on the windowsill, staring at his encroaching reflection in the darkening window. He listened to Watson's strained breaths, resisting the urge to rush to his side again. He wanted to, but he didn't think that smothering Watson was going to aid his recovery process.

Suddenly, he heard Watson utter a strange, dry sob.

"I just wish I hadn't done this to you." He said, his voice sounding dangerously frail.

Holmes turned to him and felt his stomach drop. There were tears silently streaming down his lover's face. Holmes's throat went dry. He didn't think he'd ever seen Watson cry. He looked small, childlike under the weight of his anguish.

"I wish I hadn't done this to Mary." He went on, his back beginning to shudder with the effort of not dissolving completely. "I feel so responsible-

Holmes wasn't conscious of moving. But as the cane slipped from Watson's grasp and his form sunk beneath the weight of his grief, Holmes found himself at Watson's side again, holding the doctor to him as though his life depended on it.

He let Watson cry. He had a feeling that he had needed to for a long, long time. He held the doctor tightly against him, Watson's one free arm hooked tightly about his waist, grasping desperately onto Holmes. Holmes couldn't help smiling slightly as Watson sobbed into his chest. He would be alright. He was hurting. He was wounded, but he would be alright.

Holmes would help him be alright.

**oOo**

"Holmes, whatever this autopsy might bring, we are not moving."

Holmes glanced up from the bed and raised his eyebrows slightly at Watson, dressed only in a towel held hazardously with one hand around his waist. Watson had succeeded in bathing alone for the first time in ten days, insisting to a rather disappointed Holmes that he needed some independence and, whatever his temporary injuries, he could bathe and dress himself perfectly well, if a little slowly.

"Good." Holmes replied at length, crossing his legs on the bed and resting his hands behind his head. "I really couldn't be bothered moving this much furniture. And houses are ludicrously expensive these days."

He spoke offhandedly but Watson was sure that if there was even the slightest shadow of a chance that he was unhappy, Holmes would insist they take up lodgings elsewhere in a heartbeat.

Sometimes, in the past Watson had been taken aback and even unsettled by Holmes's unfaltering devotion to him. But now, it didn't seem so strange. He understood now. The past week had confirmed what he supposed he'd always known: he would die for Holmes.

"We're happy here. We've always been happy here." Watson said, leaning against the foot of the bed and looking hard at Holmes. "We're staying."

Holmes grinned, slowly lowering his hands. "I've always loved it when you assert your dominance." He spread his legs teasingly.

Heat burst through Watson's form immediately. He could feel the blood rushing downward. He had little curiosity about what had caused this sensitivity. A week of being almost completely unable to touch Holmes was more than he could bear.

"Holmes." He growled, crawling onto the end of the bed and towards Holmes, with surprising grace for someone with only three functioning limbs.

Holmes laughed, eagerly receiving Watson onto his lap and pressing his mouth against the doctor's without the slightest hesitation. He seemed to be equally desperate for contact, his hands found Watson's neck, dragging him deeper into the kiss, deeper into Holmes. Watson's arm was painfully crushed between them but he didn't care. He was too overcome by bliss to be kissing Holmes and touching Holmes.

"Gods, I've wanted you for so long." Holmes moaned against Watson's lips, sliding his hands slowly down Watson's shoulders to his waist.

"You could have been more forward about it-

Watson managed to say before his mouth was claimed again. He closed his eyes, sliding his hand through Holmes's hair, relishing the sensation of Holmes's warm, firm body against his. His beating heart.

Watson's growing hardness was pressed against Holmes's, the sensation was sublime but he wanted more. He moved his hand down to Holmes's chest, attempting to undo the buttons with one hand with little success.

"Holmes..." He whined, breaking the kiss.

"I'm onto it." Holmes said breathlessly, clumsily tending to his buttons without taking his eyes off Watson's.

Watson bit his lip. "I'm not going to particularly enjoyable to fornicate with whilst I have this on my arm." He gestured to his sling.

"Or it could make the process more fun." Holmes smirked, moving his fingers to Watson's buttons and beginning to undo them one by one, clearly not intending to hurry the process. "For me, at least."

"You enjoy my helplessness far too much." Watson said sourly.

Holmes laughed and fondly pecked Watson's pouted lips. "You're delectable when you're helpless."

He pulled off his own shirt and deposited on the floor and then gently slid Watson's off, careful to avoid jolting his injury. He dropped it on the floor with his.

Watson cringed. "It took me twenty minutes to put that on."

"And I love being the one to tear it off of you." Holmes purred, pushing his lips into Watson's neck.

Watson gasped, throwing his head back to grant Holmes further access to the sensitive area. "Ah-

Holmes nipped gently at the skin, suckling on it like he knew Watson liked. Watson's hand grew tighter around his waist, his fingers curling and uncurling in his agitation. "Yes, uh that feels good." He mumbled, beginning to rock his hips in time with Holmes's kisses.

Holmes chuckled into Watson's neck, inducing a full-body shudder from the doctor. "So pleased to have you back, Watson," He said, looking up at him from under his eyelashes. "I intend to make full use of you."

In usual circumstances, Watson would have taken that as a cue to pin Holmes on his back and ravish him, but his wounded arm rendered that difficult. If not impossible.

Holmes must have recognised the disgruntled expression on Watson's face because he laughed and straightened up to kiss Watson on the lips. "Not so dominant anymore." He grinned.

"Enjoy it while you can." Watson said irritably before his lips were taken again.

He felt Holmes's tongue push itself gently into his mouth, teasing the inside of his bottom lip. Watson's lips parted almost on their own accord, wordlessly granting Holmes permission to go deeper. Holmes obliged, pushing further into Watson's mouth, his lips soft and messy and clumsy against Watson's. Watson pressed himself harder against Holmes's body, hungry for every sensation of him. His warmth. His heartbeat. His every movement. His every crevice.

"Mmf." Holmes murmured, breaking away. Watson felt his hot breath against his ear. "I love you."

Watson's heart leapt in his chest. He felt his pulse abruptly heighten. He leant back slightly to see Holmes's face clearer. "I love you too." He said, feeling his cheeks warm at his words.

Holmes smirked. "You're blushing. How sweet."

Watson bristled. "I am not-Oh!"

Holmes's fingers had found the bulge between Watson's legs. He massaged it with his fingertips, the corners of his mouth twitching at the look of breathless arousal on Watson's face.

Watson knitted his eyebrows, closing his eyes as Holmes pressed harder. "Ooh Gods- Yes." He hissed. "I need this. I need you-

Holmes moved his hand to the buttons on Watson's trousers. His hand was shaking but he managed to undo them without betraying the extent of his own arousal.

Watson struggled to kneel before Holmes. Holmes stared at Watson. There was intense heat radiating between them. Watson's cheeks were flushed red, his chest was heaving slightly. Holmes's own protruding arousal was obvious through his trousers but he'd managed to ignore it until now. Watson eyed it with one eyebrow raised.

"Your self-control is impressive." He said. "But even you have your limits."

With his eyes still staunchly on Holmes's, he touched the front of Holmes's trousers. He shivered slightly at the sensation of the stiff aroused flesh beneath. Holmes jerked slightly in surprise. But he didn't remark as Watson undid his buttons and stroked the sensitive flesh beneath.

Holmes closed his eyes, tilting his head back slightly as the sensation melted through his body. He touched Watson's chest to steady himself.

Watson smiled. "Undress yourself." Holmes's eyes opened slowly. "Unfortunately I can't do it myself."

Holmes nodded and obeyed, slipping his fingers inside his trousers and, with a glance at Watson, pulling them down his thighs.

Watson swallowed as the detective's familiar length was released, wet and clearly desperate for attention. "Hmm." He said, gently sliding his fingers around the appendage.

Holmes grunted, his other hand abruptly coming to Watson's chest. "Watson..."

Watson gripped it tighter in his hand and beginning to stroke it up and down slowly and softly. "It looks as though I'm not the only one who's capable of being very naughty."

"Mmf- Shuddup." Holmes moaned, rocking his hips forward and lodging his cock tighter in Watson's grip.

Watson grinned at him. "How long have you been stemming off your desire?"

Holmes let out an irritable groan. "Shut up and put some back into it, will you?"

Watson purposely slowed his pace. "Why should I? You've obviously been struggling to keep yourself under control all week."

Holmes glared at him. "I scontrolled myself far better than you managed to-

He panted between thrusting himself into Watson's palm.

Watson cocked an eyebrow at Holmes's words. With a glance at Holmes's weeping length, he abruptly withdrew his hand.

Holmes almost howled at the loss, pressing himself flat against Watson and almost sending him blind with the sensation of their hardened and damp members against each other.

" _God almighty_." Watson hissed, grinding his hips forcefully into Holmes's.

Holmes smirked triumphantly at him, rubbing himself pointedly against the doctor and having to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

"Ohh, Gods." Watson said fretfully, not reciprocating Holmes's provocative movements but not retreating either. "This feels far too good-

Holmes rested his arms around Watson's neck. "Nothing's too good for my little minx."

"Little minx?" Watson exclaimed.

"Shush." Holmes said teasingly, battling a grin. He grazed his lips against Watson's.

Watson raised his eyebrows, pulling away from Holmes. Holmes blinked confusedly at him.

"Your little minx?" Watson said flatly.

Holmes seemed slightly breathless as Watson's hand left his waist and settled lower on his thigh. "Watson..." He breathed, his eyes following Watson as he lowered his mouth to Holmes's bare torso. "What are you..."

He let out a cry of surprise as Watson's tongue found the delicate skin below his navel. His hands instinctively grabbed at Watson's hair as a shiver went down his spine. The sensation was wet and warm and made his skin flinch at the attention. Watson carefully moved himself back so he could give attention to Holmes's lower-half.

He was careful not to nick Holmes's skin with his teeth, anxious not to send him into spasms of pleasure too soon. He pressed his lips to the skin above Holmes's pubic bone and heard the breath catch in Holmes's throat.

"Oh..." He said, sounding slightly lost as Watson finally brought his mouth onto the part of Holmes he had been dying to pay attention to all week.

He cleaned away the pre-cum, licking Holmes's cock slowly like a cat lapping up milk. Holmes rocked his hips gently in time with Watson's movements, his hands loosely threaded through Watson's hair. Watson could feel his fingertips stroking his scalp very slightly as he continued his ministrations below.

Holmes exhaled breathlessly when Watson took him deeper into his mouth. "U- _ugh_ God..."

Watson would have grinned if his mouth hadn't been otherwise engaged. He looked up at Holmes's figure while he moved gently over the detective's cock. Holmes was covered in a film of perspiration; his hair was its usual mess and his firm, tanned and slightly stocky torso was moving harshly up and down as Holmes struggled to keep his quickening breaths under control.

Watson ran his tongue purposefully along the underside of Holmes's shaft and listened with relish to his breathy little whimper of: "Ohhh yes, Watson, please..."

Watson took this as a cue to increase the pressure marginally. He lowered his eyes, congratulating himself on the boneless heap of satiated adoration Holmes would be by the end of the night.

He felt Holmes's grip increase slightly and he moved his hand to Holmes's leg to steady himself. He could feel the heat rising between his and Holmes's bodies. Holmes was clambering restlessly towards his climax, forcing himself deeper into Watson's throat and moaning when Watson finally acquiesced to increase his speed.

The taste of the damp, aroused flesh was warm and familiar to Watson. It was salty and strange but not altogether unpleasant. His senses seemed to have sharpened that evening, as though his body was responding to Holmes and their closeness. He drank in everything about Holmes: his sounds, his scents, his taste, his smell. The heat radiating off his lusty flesh, the smell of perspiration and arousal but also the faint tang of his cologne and the pipe he had smoked after dinner. Watson heard every little grunt, breath, moan, mutter with acute appreciation. It comforted him deeply to be so close to him. It was soothing.

He was also painfully aware of the erection throbbing impatiently between his thighs but he grasped the last of his self-control to not break and beg Holmes to take him.

"You're a dreadful, awful tease..." Holmes muttered, his eyes almost closed.

"I thought I was a minx?" Watson panted, giving himself two seconds to catch his breath before inhaling Holmes's arousal again.

"Ooh!" Holmes's eyes flew open and he bucked his hips gently against Watson. "You're that t-too... Oh God, oh God, oh God... I'm... I'm-

Watson raised his eyebrows, feeling smug. Holmes was on the verge of release. But, Watson wasn't about to waste that desperate, aroused energy of Holmes's.

"Oh yes, oh Watson, oh _yes_." Holmes was babbling, his head now almost completely thrown back and his face very flushed and damp.

With a self-satisfied nod, Watson released Holmes with a rush of cold against the wet flesh. Holmes's eyes widened, his head jerked down. "Wh-what? Why are you-

"Your little minx indeed." Watson said archly, straightening up and plucking Holmes's hands off his head.

Holmes looked stunned for a moment and then his eyes darkened. "Watson..." He whined. "Look at me. I _need_ you-

Watson did look at him, but it didn't lessen his resolve. He pressed himself against Holmes, managing to bridle his own moan and savouring the strangled cry emitted by Holmes. "Watson!"

"Shush..." Watson said solemnly, kissing Holmes while he still blinked indignantly at him.

At first he didn't respond and then Watson felt hands creep around his waist and knee press itself between his legs. He deepened the kiss, almost melting at the friction caused between their naked bodies.

He was just beginning to feel vaguely dreamy when, without warning Holmes's grip increased around his waist and he brought Watson around him, using his knee to dislodge Watson's balance on the bed. He deposited Watson firmly on his back and took a triumphant position over his thighs, legs securely either side of him.

Watson stared wide-eyed up at him, his arm stinging slightly at the treatment. He wiggled embarrassedly as Holmes surveyed his prize with smug satisfaction.

"That's unfair." He said, stung. "I'm injured-

"Shut up." Holmes said, lowering himself over Watson and pressing his lips over Watson's mouth to silence him.

He spread Watson's legs either side of him and took the opportunity to press his cock into Watson's exposed entrance, teasing him with what was to come. He noted the hesitation in Watson's kiss when he felt the appendage against him.

Holmes wasn't surprised. Watson was still a novice when it came to passive sodomy. Holmes had to admit that he would find it marginally difficult to refrain from pounding away for all he was worth and pay heed to Watson's sensitive bits.

He gently touched Watson's cheek. "Don't look so worried. I'll be gentle with you."

Watson gazed up at him, looking almost comical with his bound arm and his hair sticking uncharacteristically up all over the place. Holmes could see the words on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to ask to be fucked but he held back. He was still clinging onto that last little scrap of dominance he wielded.

Holmes wasn't worried. He could wait. He intended to keep Watson for a very, very long time.

He smiled at the thought. "It's good to have you back, Watson." He murmured, brushing the hair back from Watson's forehead.

He usually wouldn't dare such a blatantly tender gesture but he had never felt so in love with Watson or so glad to have him as a companion, a friend, a lover.

"Holmes," Watson said in a low voice, watching Holmes with slightly hazy eyes.

"Mmm?" Holmes said offhandedly, his hand still laced through Watson's hair.

"Hurry up, will you?" He said flatly. "Your self-restraint is all very impressive but if you don't make use of me soon, I shall have to do something drastic."

Holmes would have liked to ask what precisely Watson had in mind when he was pinned on his back underneath Holmes but the very idea that Watson was _gagging_ to be had, sent the blood rushing to his already engorged shaft and he realised abruptly just how painful it was becoming.

He hastily stuck two fingers in his mouth, dampening them with as much saliva as was left in his dry mouth. He moved back slightly just so there was the bare amount of space between him and Watson that he could find Watson's heat.

Watson inhaled sharply as the fingers impaled him. He gripped hard at the blankets as the strange, cold and slightly painful process became slowly more and more bearable. Until the first pangs of pleasure began to shudder through him from his privates all the way up to his throat.

"Holmes..." He mewed, too aroused to care that it came out like a whine. "Please..."

Holmes slid his fingers out of his friend. He exhaled heavily, not conscious that he had almost stopped breathing while he'd been preparing Watson.

He moved back against Watson, placing his hands either side of Watson's thighs. Watson met his eye and a tiny, almost unnoticeable jerk of his head signalled that he was ready.

Holmes inhaled rapidly as he pushed gently inside of Watson. The taut warmth, the unbearable pleasure dazed him for a moment. It had been a long time since he'd had Watson; his body seemed to be momentarily stunned by the rush of pressure and heat.

Watson squeaked slightly as Holmes entered him but quietly enough that he hoped Holmes hadn't heard him. He gripped one of the bed bars with his free hand tightly as Holmes's hips rocked against him. The sensation rapidly moved from being vaguely uncomfortable to intensely pleasurable as Holmes instinctively tailored his pace to that which he knew most pleased Watson. Or rather- Watson's body.

Watson sometimes thought he had no control over himself. His erection was aching uncomfortably, pre-cum was leaking sluggishly from the head and he could feel the heat spreading deep through his core. His pelvis swayed up to meet Holmes every time he thrust inside of him. All he could do was gasp and whimper and blurt helpless pleas for Holmes to go faster, harder, there, there, _there-_

"Ugh Gods." He moaned, white dots erupting before his eyes as Holmes hit his sweet spot head on. "Fuck that feels s-so _good_."

Holmes could only pant in response. He made a mental note of the angle. He drank in Watson's current state. He never tired of John Watson on his back, whimpering like a virgin bride.

He stroked back the hair plastered to Watson's forehead with a shaking hand. Watson blinked up at him and then moaned as Holmes thrust into him again.

"Oohh, bastard- Watson groaned, screwing up his eyes in what ambiguously appeared to be pain. "I'm n-not going to be- _ugh_... able to walk for a... w-week!"

Holmes had to apply all of his self-control not to smirk. He had to apply further self-control not to purposely _ensure_ Watson didn't walk for a week. _A lot_ of further self-control.

His smug triumph was interrupted by a sudden rush of heat to his groin. He gasped in surprise as the tightness around his already incredibly engorged cock seemed to increase ten-fold.

Without meaning to, his movements became increasingly violent as he struggled inside of Watson for his release. Watson swore with every thrust inside of him and was clawing at the bed head with renewed ferocity. Holmes wrapped his hand around Watson's erection and stroked it hard in time with the movement of his hips. Watson released a heady whine and seemed to completely lose what self-restraint he had managed to preserve.

"Ho-olmes. P-please..." He whined, staring wide-eyed up at Holmes.

Holmes grunted in response, quickening his ministrations around Watson's cock. He closed his eyes against the wave of heat and mounting pressure. He felt his mouth slacken but he was not aware of anything else beyond Watson's cries and his own rhythm.

Watson spread his legs wider, trying to take more and more of Holmes. The pleasure was now so intense and the sensation of having Holmes inside of him so intoxicating that he could hardly think beyond needing so desperately to come.

"Ugh, I-I'm- He whimpered, throwing his hand up to touch Holmes's damp stomach. "I'm-Oh! Holmes!"

Holmes nodded in understanding, thrusting once, twice, thrice more and was then rewarded with Watson's cry of:

"Sherlock! _Oh_!"

As he orgasmed.

Spectacularly all over Holmes's stomach. He seemed almost to spasm as he came, his whole body tensing up intently for a moment and a look of frozen anguish flickering across his face before the thick, hot fluid burst over Holmes's skin.

"Ughhguhds..." Holmes moaned, losing control of speech and thought as his own orgasm followed.

He felt his seed rush into Watson and drip down sluggishly over his cock. His whole body trembled and his knees felt as though they wouldn't support his weight if he attempted to stand.

Not that he had any plan to. He gazed down at Watson's panting figure, now with his pristine hair ruinously tussled and his cheeks bright pink and damp with perspiration.

Watson slowly dropped his hand down from Holmes's stomach, letting it flop beside him on the pillow. Holmes stroked Watson's forehead again, glad that Watson was too exhausted to resist.

"You're beautiful when you're dazed with pleasure." He said softly, only half teasing.

Watson didn't reply. He wiggled slightly uncomfortably, and Holmes suddenly realised he was still buried up to the hilt inside of him.

He pulled out and sat up straight, noting the ache around his privates and in his sore limbs. He really felt like a smoke. He glanced at Watson. But he thought he could live without one for now.

He moved to one side so Watson could lower his legs, which were spectacularly sprawled apart as wide as they could possibly spread. He crawled up to lie next to him, on the side of his good arm so that Watson could put it around his waist. He clung onto Watson's sweaty figure, inhaling the familiar scents of their lovemaking. The result of their passion was smeared equally across both of them but Holmes didn't care and doubted whether Watson did either.

Watson held him tightly, his breathing slowly returning to its normal regularity. Holmes could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing.

The silence which surrounded them was not so much present because they had nothing to say to each other but because they thought they couldn't possibly put in words what their bodies had so eloquently and passionately demonstrated in perfect silence.

Holmes thought there was really only one more thing he could add:

"Welcome home, Watson." He said, kissing Watson's nipple fondly and nestling into his side.


	29. Self Control

It came on a slip of white paper. The ink very black, the script very neat. The words were official, emotionless and offered nothing beyond the comfort of the cold, hard truth. Watson wondered what he had expected. Perhaps a footnote: _It's alright. You didn't kill your unborn child after all so you're not actually a murderer, just a sodomite. Maybe God will go easy on you._ But of course there was nothing of the sort.

Holmes seemed to know not to speak as Watson stood by the window reading the slip of paper for perhaps the hundredth time. Watson was grateful for his silence and relieved by his presence. He didn't want Holmes to say anything. He didn't want the situation to be complicated by one of those daft, little phrases: "It'll be alright", "Are you okay?" and the like. But luckily Holmes was good at not offering unwanted sympathy.

Watson just wanted them to keep going as though this situation had never occurred, until he felt capable to face it. He didn't know if he'd be able to cope otherwise.

Watson had been intending to go himself to hear the findings, but Lestrade had sent a letter detailing the most important points. Watson wasn't surprised that he hadn't come himself; he probably did not want to face Watson but Watson was thankful that he wouldn't have to share his reaction with anyone beyond Holmes.

Just as expected, the cause of death was a single bullet to the brain delivered via the temple. There were no abnormalities and naturally no suspicions that it was anything but suicide. Watson wouldn't have been surprised if he had been accused of murdering her. But there was little chance of that occurring, even if he confessed. The facts didn't add up and his fingerprints weren't on the pistol besides. Which would, in turn, possibly incriminate Holmes and Watson had no intention of letting that happen.

He folded the letter. He had to stop thinking now. It was done.

He put the letter down, looking straight ahead. No abnormalities. No suspicious circumstances. And no child.

The words made his chest swell with relief and unhappiness. He turned to Holmes finally, conscious of the cold moisture on his cheeks. Holmes silently moved his arms forward slightly.

Watson went to him, kneeling against his legs and burying his face in Holmes's stomach. He felt Holmes's hand touch his hair while the other cupped his neck possessively.

"It'll be alright." Holmes said softly.

And for the first time, Watson felt he believed him.

**oOo**

Later they bathed together. It was a slippery, hot, slightly squashed but highly rewarding experience. Holmes found the best method of them both fitting in comfortably was if he straddled Watson's lap, one leg on either side of him. Watson seemed more than happy with this solution.

"Hmm," Holmes said, fingers deeply tangled in Watson's hair. "When did you last comb your hair?"

Watson nudged Holmes's elbows out of his face. "Quite a while ago." He said, his free hand settling on Holmes's waist.

"My my," Holmes grinned, dropping his hands down onto Watson's chest. "What a dreadful slattern. And here I thought you were the model of cleanliness."

"I will be when my arm is fixed." Watson said gruffly, raising his eyebrows at Holmes's glinting brown eyes. "It is still not half as dirty as yours."

Holmes laughed at Watson's humourless expression. "Stop acting like such a soldier." He paused with a smirk. "Unless you intend to march somewhere interesting." He put his mouth close to Watson's ear and licked the rim.

Watson jumped, cocking his head. "Stop that." He said sternly. "H-H _olmes_!" He broke off with a squeak.

Holmes had put his whole mouth over Watson's ear. He felt the glow of success as Watson's face went slack for a moment at the sensation. Holmes released him, leaving a trail of saliva behind.

"That is _disgusting_." Watson said crossly, scrubbing his ear with his hand. "You're revolting."

Holmes almost laughed. "It is curious how often your moral outrage is accompanied by this sound." He ground his hips mercilessly into Watson's and beamed at the strangled cry it extracted.

"U-ughgads." Watson groaned, his grip on Holmes's waist tightening.

"One would think that you actually _enjoy_ all of these naughty, dirty, low, vulgar things I do to you." Holmes said offhandedly, his fingers gently combing Watson's scarce chest hair.

Watson went slightly pink but looked suitably disapproving. "Can't you wait until we're out of the bath?"

Holmes cocked his head slightly, looking at Watson in a fashion that suggested he did not _intend_ to wait until they were out of the bath. He rolled his hips once more into Watson's and pinned himself against him, not allowing Watson to escape.

"Holmes!" Watson gulped, bucking slightly against him. He cheeks were very pink now from a mixture of the steam and mounting pleasure.

Holmes bit his own lip to bridle the moan that was fighting to escape his mouth. "You like... it..." He panted, rubbing his increasing hardness against Watson's.

Watson tossed his head slightly as the pressure increased; his hand was clawing at Holmes's waist and that was his only support against the incredible sensation between his thighs.

"Let's make a bet-

Holmes managed to breathe in between thrusts.

Watson stared at him in disbelief. "Are you insane?" He croaked, his face damp with sweat.

Holmes stopped his rocking abruptly and rested on Watson's thighs. Watson almost keened the loss of Holmes's crotch pinned against his.

"Whoever comes to orgasm first will be buggered tonight." Holmes looked like he was fighting with a smirk. "By the other of course."

Watson stared. "What is the point?"

Holmes smiled, pressing a wet finger against Watson's lips. "The point is to see who has the greater stamina." He cocked an eyebrow. "And self-control."

The word was like a stimulant; both men were convinced that they had vastly more self-control than the other. Holmes thought he had an advantage, having avoided sexual activities for most of his life while Watson thought this his great advantage because it would take less effort to overwhelm Holmes's inexperienced body.

Watson eyed Holmes. He was hardly disinterested in making Holmes orgasm but there was a tiny, niggling thought at the back of his mind that told him that Holmes was only doing this to distract him from the letter. But even realising this comforted him. He wanted to be distracted, and what pleasant distraction this could be.

"Alright," He said, feeling a very vague and faint glimmer of something warm in his stomach. He almost wanted to smile but controlled himself. "Prepare to lose."

If Holmes was surprised he didn't allow it to show. With a very slight smirk on his lips, he slid forward onto Watson's hips again without waiting for him to prepare himself.

Watson managed to keep from moaning but he felt his hips roll upward into Holmes's almost on their own accord.

"Now," Holmes said, as though he hadn't noticed. "The rules..."

" _Rules_?" Watson said, raising his eyebrows.

Holmes eyed him with amusement. "Yes. All games have rules, Watson."

"Everything is a game to you." Watson said flatly, leaning back against the tub.

Holmes ignored him. "No dirty tactics." He said, with a look which suggested that _he_ intended to use every dirty tactic he could manage. "No foreign objects-

"And keep arms and legs inside the bathtub." Watson said impatiently. "Yes, yes. I get it."

"Well," Holmes said, his eyes firmly on Watson's. "Proceed."

Watson stared. He wasn't sure he liked being under such close surveillance while he was supposed to be giving pleasure. Especially when he had a bound arm and wasn't able to move with quite the amount of ease he usually could. Also, he knew Holmes was appraising his performance.

"Why do I have to go first?" He asked uncomfortably.

"We'll go at the same time then," Holmes said, grinning widely, he placed a hand on both Watson's thighs and rocked his hips forward so that his cock was firmly pinned against Watson's. He used the same tactic as before to ensure Watson couldn't escape.

Watson was more prepared this time and managed to keep from crying out. He put his free hand on Holmes's waist again to steady himself. He felt he was at somewhat of a disadvantage having just one arm to work with and more of a chance of losing his balance in an embarrassing situation.

Holmes was rocking again and again against Watson; every thrust sent sharp pulses of pleasure directly to Watson's pelvis. But, even though every time Holmes thrust it felt like Watson was about to come then and there, he managed to ride it out. He was sure he could outlast Holmes and he had an inkling that Holmes's strenuous attempts to force Watson to orgasm would have completely the opposite effect.

He hoped.

The sensation of Holmes's now fully hardened cock being rubbed up and down his own was without a doubt incredibly pleasurable. He didn't think he'd be able to face Holmes if he climaxed first. His reputation would be shot.

But he didn't think he was quite out of the running yet. Holmes's face was very flushed and plastered with sweat. His hair was sticking to his forehead and his mouth was slightly open as he panted against the heat and friction. Watson had no doubt that Holmes was working himself up as much as he was Watson.

"If you keep that up," Watson panted, pressing his back against the back of the bath to keep from grabbing onto the side out of habit. "Your seed will be dripping off my chest in less than a minute-

He broke off with a yell as Holmes's damp, warm mouth suddenly engulfed his nipple. "Th-that's... not fair..." He stammered, his free hand suddenly in Holmes's hair as though on its own accord.

Holmes paused and looked up at Watson under his eyelashes. "I never said anything against exploiting weak spots." He said placidly, before licking Watson's nipple in a highly provoking fashion.

Watson put his head back, trying to breathe more air that seemed to be in the cramped, steamy little room. Trust Holmes to play dirty to get his own way.

Watson had half a mind to just give in and enjoy the delicious attentions that Holmes was now paying to his right nipple. He'd just let Holmes make him climax and then he'd enjoy being buggered by Holmes, but he'd never be able to look Holmes in the eye again.

Holmes was making an extravagant show of licking and teasing and biting Watson's nipple, he seemed to be enjoying his power over Watson and the apparent fast approaching victory. Watson stayed where he was but he moved his one free hand slowly down Holmes's thigh, resting it just below the curve of Holmes's arse.

Holmes didn't seem to notice. He finished playing with Watson's nipple and began stroking the curve between his ribs with his fingertips. Watson's skin flinched at his touch and for a moment Watson felt stunned by the change in pace. His cock was twinging with arousal, the combination of being pinned against Holmes's crotch, his stinging nipples and now Holmes's fingers trailing up and down his chest was sending him far too close to the brink.

He was sure he was going to orgasm if he didn't take drastic action. Holmes was fully in control.

Without thinking- well, mostly without thinking- he slid his hand down Holmes's arse and buried two fingers gently but firmly in Holmes's unprepared heat.

The reaction was immediate. Holmes's whole body curled upward like a cat having its fur stroked the wrong way and an endearing look of surprise came across his face as he blinked up at Watson with confused brown eyes.

"A-ah!" He moaned, hands hastily leaving Watson's chest.

He was staring directly at Watson, his eyes wide. Watson couldn't help looking smug. He slid his finger in deeper and felt Holmes spasm against him; he pressed himself flat against Watson, his face to Watson's shoulder and ground his hips once more into Watson's.

Some string of babbled nonsensical words left his mouth and Watson felt something warm rush up onto his stomach. He heard a thankful groan leave his own mouth as he finally allowed himself to orgasm also.

For a moment neither man spoke. Holmes was flat against Watson. Watson's fingers were still half-buried inside of Holmes. He slowly extracted them, hearing Holmes inhale sharply. Watson pressed his mouth into Holmes's hair, inhaling his familiar, dishevelled scent.

"That was a dirty, low trick." Holmes croaked at length, straightening up and kneeling over Watson's hips.

"And attacking me wasn't?" Watson said archly.

"There is a difference between strategy and deviance." Holmes said primly, leaning across and stroking back Watson's fringe from his face with a slightly clammy hand.

"You would know." Watson said, attempting to smile though his face felt numb. "Anyway. I won so..." He leant back and leant on his free arm. "I suppose you'll be bending over for me tonight."

"Well," Holmes said thoughtfully. "I might be. If you can work out how to bugger me wearing that thing." He nodded at Watson's sling.

Watson looked down at it. "Oh, shit."

**oOo**

Holmes glanced over his shoulder at his and Watson's shared bed. Watson was dressed in just a pair of trousers; he found wrestling a shirt on too much of a struggle. His hair was still a bit damp and plastered down flat on his head. He had yesterday's newspaper spread flat on his lap and seemed immersed.

Holmes finished buttoning his shirt and absentmindedly picked up his pipe and a match from the dresser. He would never admit it to Watson but he was quite pleased he had Watson all to himself, at least for a few days. He wanted to care for him and ensure that he healed, both mentally and physically. He felt very protective of him, as always.

He was glad Lestrade or any other idiotic law enforcer had not come knocking on the door, clumsily unearthing every painful thing Watson had managed to put to rest in the precious couple of weeks that had passed since Mary's death. A letter, though abrupt and impersonal in this circumstance, was far less destructive.

He lit his pipe, put down the match and went across to Watson, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching him like he knew he hated. It was an effortless way of getting Watson's attention, he just sat and watched him and enjoyed the growing irritation on Watson's face until he finally put down what he was doing to tell Holmes off.

For a few moments, Watson looked like he was trying to pretend that he didn't notice Holmes smoking out of the corner of his eye and then, inevitably, he looked up. "You shouldn't smoke in bed." He said disapprovingly. "You'll set us alight."

"You shouldn't read the newspaper in bed," Holmes replied, crawling up next to Watson and shoving the newspaper off his lap. "It supplies fodder."

Watson rolled his eyes but let Holmes push it off the bed. He put his hand around Holmes's waist as he nestled into his side. "I suppose tonight's activities are more or less postponed." He scowled down at his bulky sling.

"More or less." Holmes said offhandedly, letting his eyelashes brush Watson's bare chest.

Watson was silent for a moment. Holmes knew he was disappointed that there would be no sex tonight, but Holmes wasn't prepared to break Watson's arm off with the strain of their often quite boisterous lovemaking. But he had other ideas for working off the sexual energy they had both built up. He also wanted to keep Watson from brooding at all costs until he could get back to work and into a more or less normal routine. He didn't want Watson becoming depressed and miserable. And, of course, it wasn't much of a sacrifice to Holmes to have to provide Watson with sexual play.

"Well," Holmes said, glancing sideways at Watson. "There is always..."

"Always what?" Watson asked, looking at him.

"Wait here." Holmes said, sliding off of the bed and leaving his pipe on the table next to it.

He went back into the living area. The bathtub was still in the centre of the room, now drained but surrounded by a giant damp patch, a result of their enthusiastic 'bathing'. Holmes crossed to Watson's armchair and pulled back the cushion. Underneath were three leather-bound books. The pornography Holmes had so cleverly employed, if he didn't say so himself, to help distract Watson from his nightmares.

From what he could see it had been a huge success.

Holmes took the books back into the bedroom and, standing at the end of the bed, tossed them down one by one onto the covers where they each landed with a soft plop.

Watson stared at them. "Why on earth did you bring those home?"

"I thought you might want them." Holmes said, delighting in the blush that still came to Watson's cheeks at the mere sight of the books. "I hid them under your armchair cushion."

He sat on the edge of the bed, picking one up casually.

" _What_?" Watson looked outraged.

"I was somewhat hoping you'd find them." Holmes said, smiling cheekily at the flushing doctor. "I thought it'd be fun. But not, as it turns out, as fun as this."

Watson glowered. "I've had too many bad experiences with them. I don't want them."

Holmes raised his eyebrows and crawled further down the bed, sitting squarely opposite Watson. "These helped you."

"Helped me how?" Watson asked crossly, seeming to be determined in his denial.

Holmes stared at him. Sometimes Watson was really quite ridiculous. "They helped you distract yourself away from other less pleasant things such as recurring nightmares." He said patiently, though he felt anything but.

Watson blinked. " _That_ was why you bought them?"

Holmes stared at him. "Why else would I buy them?" He couldn't help feeling a little put out that Watson had not worked it out for himself. He had expected a somewhat warmer reaction to his efforts.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Watson demanded.

Holmes couldn't help rolling his eyes. "Because you are stubborn and proud and if I had told you my motive, you would have been doubly determined to resist it. But this way your curiosity more or less did the work for me." He said boredly.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" Watson said, frowning. It did not look like he was about to swoon with gratitude.

"Of course!" Holmes snapped. "Surely you realised that. Even you aren't that dense-

"There are a million other ways you could have helped me." Watson said furiously, sitting up straighter where he was. "This was deceit. You did it for your own selfish motives."

Holmes didn't reply. He stared at the opposite wall, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He could see Watson watching him out of the corner of his eye.

After a moment, Watson spoke. "I needed your help," He said, his voice hard. Holmes looked at him. "You exploited me."

"No," Holmes said steadily, forcing himself to swallow his irritation. "You may be surprised to hear this, Watson but I am not a sex fiend."

There was silence. Holmes watched Watson, Watson stared at the bed covers.

Sighing, Holmes piled the books on top of each other and crawled across to where Watson lay, gently tilting Watson's chin up. "I couldn't stand to watch you suffer night after night. I couldn't stand to see you frightened and lost and hurt night after night. Perhaps what I did was deceitful but it stopped the nightmares and I'm not sorry I did it."

Watson didn't move. Holmes couldn't read his expression. He wondered if Watson was going to punch him or kiss him. Turns out, it was the latter.

Soft lips took him by surprise and he opened his mouth slightly without meaning to giving Watson leave to push inside, his tongue running the length of Holmes's bottom lip. "Mmph." Holmes said thickly, sliding his arms around Watson's torso. He always enjoyed the sensation of having a mouthful of Watson.

When he finally broke away, Holmes was disappointed. He made a noise of protest against Watson's retreating lips. He felt Watson's hand on his cheek, his fingers warm and still slightly damp from the bath. "Thank you," He said. "And I'm sorry. I know you've always just wanted to help me. And I'm sorry I'm such a damned mess." He sheepishly met Holmes's eye.

Holmes smiled. "It was worth it."

There was silence. Watson stared stonily ahead, the features of his face working visibly to keep from collapsing completely. Holmes saw the moisture clinging to Watson's eyelashes. He decided not to draw attention to it and instead straightened up, leaning across and grabbing one of the books piled on the covers.

"Now," He said, avoiding looking at Watson to give him time to blink away his tears. "I have an idea."

Watson chuckled softly. "I thought so."

Holmes smirked and crawled onto Watson's lap, the book pressed between them. Watson met his eye, his eyes still slightly misty but otherwise more or less his usual self. "I was thinking..." Holmes couldn't help grinning in anticipation of Watson's reaction. "You could read me some of this riveting literature. He plucked the book out from between them and pressed it firmly into Watson's hand. "And I..." He moved closer so his mouth was inches away from Watson's. "Could act it out for you."

He felt Watson choke on his own saliva and took the opportunity to spring off his lap and onto his knees, unbuttoning his shirt.

"Are you serious?" Watson blinked.

"Of course!" Holmes said enthusiastically.

Watson paused, watching as Holmes hastily undid his buttons. "Do you have to do it without clothes on?" He asked, sounding almost fearful.

Holmes paused, looking at him. "I don't _have_ to. But it would make it more fun, don't you think?"

Watson swallowed, nodding very slightly.

Holmes cocked an eyebrow questioningly at him. "Besides, why would that concern you? Don't you want me to?" He said, feigning hurt.

"No, no, no." Watson said hurriedly. "Of course I do. It's just..."

He broke off, blushing.

Holmes could feel the grin threatening to force itself onto his face again. "Why are you so concerned about that tiny, little detail?"

Watson took a shaky breath and met Holmes's eyes with some effort. "I'm... not sure..." He hesitated, glancing away. "If... I could..." He cleared his throat. "Rolleyelf..." He mumbled inaudibly.

"What was that?" Holmes said gleefully, crawling back over to Watson and tugging his head upward. "Tell me. Go on. Say it."

Watson, with beetroot red cheeks and an air of long-suffering exasperation, said in barely louder than a mutter: "Control myself."

Holmes almost laughed. He very almost gave a triumphant laugh. But, with some considerable amount of _self-control,_ he managed to swallow it and give Watson what he hoped was a sage look. "I knew it. Welcome to our level, Watson. I hope you enjoy your stay."

Watson coughed, obviously trying to hide a smile. "Ridiculous." He said gruffly, gently pushing Holmes away. He opened the book, rifling through to a random page. "Now hurry up."

Holmes, who usually would have milked this moment of glory for all it was worth, decided it would be ten times more satisfying to see Watson lose control of himself in practise.

He resumed unbuttoning himself, watching with genuine delight as Watson smiled and blushed and looked for the first time, in a long time like he was happy. Or very close to it, anyway.


	30. What It Wants

**_Six months later_ **

Watson glanced at his pocket watch for what could have been the fiftieth time that morning. It was almost ten and he was very concerned about being late. He had been waiting for Holmes to emerge from their bedroom for the last thirty minutes.

He rolled his eyes to himself and shoved the watch back in his coat. He crossed to the bedroom door and knocked smartly on it with his cane. "Holmes, what the devil are you doing in there? We are going to miss our train. Sometimes I think you deliberately do this to-

"I cannot find my hat." Came Holmes's irate voice. "Anywhere. You've moved it."

"I haven't touched your hat!" Watson replied crossly. He tried the doorknob and found it locked. "Why is this door locked?"

"I'm not decent." Holmes's voice sounded muffled.

"That does not seem to deter you when I'mdressing." Watson said flatly.

He pushed his ear to the wood. He could hear Holmes stamping around inside, muttering ill-temperedly under his breath. "Have you looked under the bed?"

"Of course." Holmes said irritably. "I am not an idiot."

Watson straightened up. "Could have fooled me."

"I heard that-

"Shut up and hurry up." Watson nudged the door impatiently.

There was silence. Watson listened to him scurry around inside, knocking things over and muttering profanities.

"For God's sake!" Watson burst out. "I don't care what you wear on your head! Wear a pillow case! Wear a snuff box! Just _please_ hurry u-

The door swung open. Watson stepped back in surprise. Holmes stepped out, primly straightening his bowler hat. "Found it."

Watson scowled at him. "It would have taken you fifteen minutes less if you kept your things in order."

"There is a thin line between keeping order and being downright pedantic, Watson." Holmes said, raising an eyebrow as he looked Watson up and down. He stepped forward and ran his hands through Watson's hair. "You look so much healthier when your hair isn't stuck to your head." He murmured.

Watson slapped Holmes's hand away. "Thank you. Now I look as scruffy as you." He tried to flatten his hair back to its slick mound but a clump of it stuck determinedly up just beyond his reach. "Does it look okay?" He asked Holmes.

Holmes tilted his head. "Perfect." He said, straight-faced.

Watson sighed. "Okay. Time to leave. We're late. We're very, very late." He ushered Holmes out of the front door, hurriedly locking it and picking up the two suitcases waiting by the stairs. He shoved one at Holmes.

"Wait!" Holmes said shrilly. "Have we got the-

"Tobacco. Five tins." Watson said, tugging at Holmes's sleeve.

"What about the-

"Pistol with bullets." Watson said hastily, dragging Holmes down the stairs. "In my suitcase. We have everything we could possibly need, Holmes. Don't worry."

They were almost at the street when Holmes stopped abruptly, turning to Watson with wide eyes. "What about the..." He glanced around. "Oil." He said in a lowered voice.

Watson's eyebrows shot up. "Wait here." He mumbled, running back up the stairs at a record pace.

**oOo**

Holmes glanced at Watson over the top of his newspaper. Watson seemed immersed in rolling a cigarette, something which would seem innocuous to any but a few. When Watson was anxious he became shell-shocked. When Watson was nervous he became fidgety.

Holmes flattened the newspaper and tossed it on the seat beside him. He leant across and touched Watson's knee. Watson jerked and looked up. Holmes smiled at him. Watson nodded very slightly at him and went back to rolling his cigarette.

Holmes took back his hand. He couldn't help feeling a tiny twinge in his own stomach. But it was mostly in anticipation of Watson's reaction. They had been avoiding this for six months. Well, Watson had. Holmes had offered to take him week after week but Watson always had an excuse.

When he'd first started working again, he'd buried himself in his job. He'd seemed almost frightened to be inactive. When he wasn't working, he was clearing furniture out of his and Mary's house and when he wasn't doing that, he had taken it upon himself to sort out Holmes's belongings. Baker Street looked like a nunnery for roughly a week before Holmes had successfully destroyed it again.

Holmes didn't remember ever seeing Watson more relieved than the day he had finally sold his and Mary's house. It was two or three months ago now but the change in Watson's disposition had been remarkable. He no longer seemed to be forever looking over his shoulder; there no longer seemed to be an underlying edge of unease to everything he did. He wasn't quite himself yet but he was certainly getting there.

Holmes watched Watson finish his first cigarette and neatly place it on the seat next to him. Watson paused, staring at his knees and passing the tin of tobacco from hand to hand. Holmes smiled slightly to himself. He had known him long enough to know when he was terrified.

The cab came to a halt. Holmes glanced up.

"Watson," He said quietly, nudging Watson's leg. "We're here."

Watson raised his head. He pushed the cigarettes into his pocket and wordlessly opened the door. Holmes followed him out, stepping down onto the damp footpath.

Holmes glanced up at the huge arch that served as the entrance to Brompton Graveyard. Beyond it was a path, flanked by gravestones.

Holmes waited by the wall, shivering while Watson paid the driver, keeping the suitcases close to him. Watson did not trust cabriolet drivers and would not ask them to wait, even if he only had to leave for a minute. And he certainly would never leave any of his belongings with them.

Holmes sighed at him as they walked through the huge archway. He was tempted to comment on the wisdom of sending away a cab when this area seemed fairly deserted in the way of traffic, but he decided it would be more sensitive if he held his tongue, for once.

There didn't seem to be anyone about as they went in. Holmes stared across the sea of gravestones, sticking up like jagged, misshapen teeth from the undergrowth. Watson walked in front of him, never hesitating and never glancing back at Holmes. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.

Watson crossed the grass and to a small hill covered untidily by a clump of overgrown laurel bushes. There were so many graves that most of them were crowded less than a metre together. Holmes glanced at them as they walked; some of the names had been completely weathered away. Holmes gave a little shiver. He had never liked graveyards, despite the amount of time he seemed to spend in the company of corpses. He preferred them when they weren't buried like potatoes all over the place.

"Here it is," Watson stopped so abruptly that Holmes almost collided with him.

Watson knelt down; Holmes shuffled backwards a few inches. The gravestone looked strangely white against the faded brown stones around it. It wasn't particularly ornate. It was square and quite large with a tiny, almost unreadable date etched at the very top and the name: 'Mary Watson' engraved below it. Watson had had no say in what was engraved on it. Holmes didn't know whether this was because Watson did not want a say or because Mary's relations had taken control of matters.

The words: _We were richer for having known you_ were engraved below her name. Holmes raised an eyebrow. He could have thought of a thousand more appropriate things to write on the grave of a woman who shot herself in the head, but he kept silent.

Watson knelt down, dropping the suitcase beside him. Holmes heard him sigh.

**oOo**

Watson leant out his hand and touched the gravestone. It was cold and damp under his fingertips. It felt as though it had been there for an age, but it had only stood for a bare few months. Watson read the words and immediately disliked them. They seemed almost vulgar in their generic impersonality, but he knew her parents were still in some form of denial about her death.

They didn't really understand what their daughter had done. Suicide was inconceivable to them. They were from a good family. They were Christians. Suicide and much less depression just didn't occur.

He traced her name with his finger. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest and the blood was pumping like a drum in his ears. His chest felt tight.

"Forgive me, Mary." He wanted to say, but he couldn't bring his mouth to speak.

He heard Holmes stir behind him.

He stood up and turned to him. Holmes was watching him, his face unreadable. Watson didn't know what Holmes thought about how he had handled these past few months. But Holmes had been an undoubtable support to him; he was more than certain that without him he never would have survived. From his darkest moments directly following her death, the nightmares and guilt and fear, to the careful reconstruction of his life thereafter, Holmes had been there watching over him and ready to catch him when he stumbled.

Watson heard himself exhale. "Well, that's done."

Holmes tilted his head slightly, as though he was weighing up whether he believed Watson's impassive countenance. "That was very quick."

"Well, I'm not one to stand around in graveyards feeling sorry for myself." Watson said sharply, picking up his suitcase and pushing past Holmes. "So let's go."

He could almost sense Holmes's raised eyebrows as he retreated back to Old Brompton Road.

They stood and waited for a cabriolet to pass. Watson had to admit that his aversion to cabriolet drivers may not have been entirely practical today; it looked like cabs never passed this way.

"So." Holmes said, looking at Watson out of the corner of his eye.

"So." Watson said curtly, staring straight ahead.

The street was deserted but there was a long line of houses opposite. He hoped no one was looking out of their window and wondering who would be stupid enough to strand themself outside Brompton Graveyard.

Holmes cleared his throat. Watson ignored him.

He stared down the road in a fruitless hope that a cab would turn the corner at any moment. He shifted his suitcase from one hand to the other.

"We're going to miss our train." He said half-heartedly.

Holmes gave a non-committal grunt and Watson suddenly felt a warm hand touch his. He looked down in surprise as Holmes's fingers looped through his. He had half a mind to snatch his hand back, as it was hardly subtle to hold hands in the middle of a residential street but he found himself not letting go, not telling Holmes to let go.

Holmes's hand comforted him. Silently Holmes was telling him that he would continue to support him no matter what they faced, he was not alone. Watson almost felt a weight lift off of his shoulders. It almost felt as though life was finally being breathed back into his body.

They stood there for ten minutes more, though it could have been ten hours and neither of them would have noticed. Both of them scanned the street for the cab that seemed destined to never come. Finally, Holmes spoke, his hand still wrapped around Watson's.

"I don't think a cabriolet is going to come this way any time soon."

"Shall we walk back?" Watson said, feeling for his pocket watch. "Good God, it's ten-thirty. Our train came twenty minutes ago!"

Holmes peered at him. "Are you cross?"

Watson shrugged, giving Holmes's hand a very slight squeeze. "Well, with all limbs..." He glanced at Holmes. "And hats accounted for, I suppose it could be worse."

He dropped Holmes's hand and turned up the street. He had walked some distance before he glanced behind him and realised Holmes hadn't followed him. "What are you waiting for? What's wrong?"

Holmes just stared at him, an almost comical look of amazement on his face. "Did you just..." He said blankly. "Shrug off the fact that we missed our train... The train that you've been going on and on and on and on about all week? The train that you seemed to think would bring about the apocalypse if we missed it?"

Watson blinked. "Ah," He hesitated, glancing away and then back at Holmes. "I'm sorry?"

Holmes's eyebrows, which had been disappearing into his hairline, suddenly returned to their normal position. A smile slowly spread on his face. He walked up to Watson and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Watson's eyes widened. "Holmes!" He hissed, glancing around. "Holding hands is one thing but-

"Do you just realise," Holmes said, as though he hadn't heard him. "That you just made light of the fact that we're late?"

Watson felt very confused and he must have looked it, because Holmes smirked. "For the first time in your immaculate, ironed, pressed, folded, preened, timed life you've done something almost mildly rebellious. Congratulations."

Holmes walked past him, slapping him on the arse as he did. Watson jumped indignantly, blinking after Holmes with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

**oOo**

They wandered back towards Hyde Park where they knew there would be an abundance of cabs and carriages milling around, waiting for patronage.

They walked side by side. Watson felt a thousand times lighter since leaving the graveyard.

By his side Holmes was whistling, something which would usually prompt Watson to tell him to stop being so annoying and immature, however Watson seemed disinclined to snap today. He looked happy, even happier than in the past few months when he'd been slowly becoming his usual self. The self he had been before he had married Mary.

Holmes had to resist the urge not to grab his hand again as they walked. Watson was swinging his suitcase slightly and Holmes could have almost laughed at the change in Watson's person. The absence of the sling and his being able to take care of himself had made a huge change in him. He no longer seemed to resent having to need Holmes; he seemed far more content and far more ready to take Holmes's hand (as such) when he needed him. And he often needed him, even if he wouldn't often admit it.

They reached the park. Couples seemed to be swarming all over it. It was almost impossible to walk without colliding with some simpering couple. It seemed to be a favourite haunt of theirs.

Holmes glanced at Watson. He wondered if this sight would unease him, but on the contrary he seemed hardly even to notice them. He was glancing around for a cab.

Holmes on the other hand found the sight irritating to say the least.

He felt Watson tug on his sleeve. "Look! A cab, Holmes. Over there. Let's go." He began to half drag, half lead Holmes towards it.

"Hey!" Watson called to the driver. "Can you take us to Waterloo Station?"

Holmes turned back to the park. He frowned to himself. "Hey, Watson." He said slowly, as Watson was searching about for money on his person. "I want to go for a walk in the park."

Watson froze. He stared at Holmes as though he'd gone mad. "What?" He said, half laughing. He glanced at the driver, as though he was desperately hoping that the driver assumed Holmes _was_ mad.

"I want to go for a walk in the park," Holmes said firmly, he hooked his arm around Watson's waist and, without waiting for him to protest, dragged him back towards the gates. Watson looked over his shoulder at the driver who was watching them go with a frown.

"Do you have no concept of subtlety?" He hissed at Holmes, trying to untangle himself from Holmes's arm. "Holding my hand, kissing me, treating me like your personal plaything in front of other people-

"Meaning that it would be perfectly alright if we were alone?" Holmes interrupted, sending Watson a sly look and not releasing his arm.

"You're twisting my words," Watson said irritably. "What on earth do you want to walk in the park for? You can walk in this park any day of the year!"

"But I want to walk in it today," Holmes said, standing back from the gate and gesturing for Watson to go in. "With you."

Watson stared at him for a moment. "Fine." He grumbled. He stomped inside, accidentally bouncing his suitcase off the gate as he did and making a clanging sound like a bell. Eyes in all direction turned towards them; Watson flushed with embarrassment and hurried through, dragging a giggling Holmes after him.

"Have you gone completely insane?" Watson said crossly, frog-marching Holmes down the path in a highly unromantic fashion.

"Slow down," Holmes commanded, digging his nails into Watson's sleeve and forcing him to come to a halt. Watson looked at him, his face grim. "Can't we walk a little slower?" He snaked his arm around Watson's, making Watson blush deeper and look over his shoulder uncomfortably. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention, but Watson looked uneasy.

"Holmes..." He said in a low voice. "We will be caught one of these days. We stick out like a sore thumb." He paused. "And we look a couple of berks with these suitcases."

Holmes just grinned. "Come on. It's romantic."

"Shhhh," Watson said, though a smile flickered across his lips.

They walked for a while through the park, not following any direct route but seeming merely to change direction when Holmes became bored with their current location. They walked for some twenty minutes at a rapid pace before eventually Watson, who hated admitting when his leg was paining him, had to stop.

"Holmes," He said quietly. "I have to sit down."

Holmes immediately understood. Without speaking, he led Watson to a vacant bench nearby.

Watson fell into it heavily, dropping the suitcase by his side. Holmes sat beside him, placing his suitcase between his legs.

"See? Isn't this pleasant?" He said, resting his head on Watson's shoulder.

Watson made a face. "Yes. But we could do this seven times a week if we wanted to."

"Shut up," Holmes said. "Just enjoy yourself for once."

Watson sighed but didn't retort. He had to admit, it was relaxing sitting there with Holmes beside him, the trees above sheltering them from the worst of the sun's rays. As midday approached, the crowds began to thin.

Watson was quite pleased of their departure. Holmes seemed immune to their strange looks and over-the-shoulder glances at the two men so intimately seated on the bench but Watson felt a sense of severe discomfort under their gaze. Half of him was afraid that they'd report them to the police, but apparently he gave the people of London too little credit. They seemed content to ogle.

"I just want us to enjoy our last few moments in London," Holmes mumbled. Watson glanced at him. His eyes were half shut, he looked like he was about to fall asleep.

" _Our last few moments_ indeed," Watson said, trying to shake Holmes off of his shoulder. "We won't be gone for more than a week."

Holmes grunted offhandedly, refusing to budge from Watson's shoulder.

Watson went back to watching the crowds watching them. He made a face at a couple staring openly at him. Their eyes widened and they hurried on.

Watson was almost surprised at his own immaturity. He could just imagine what Holmes would think of that little bout of insecurity. Holmes's insanity was most likely rubbing off on him. A lot of other things were.

"Stop thinking so much." Holmes remarked, opening one eye and peering up at Watson.

"I am not thinking," Watson said through gritted teeth. "I'm just sitting here like a vegetable and not thinking."

"That's the spirit." Holmes said, yawning.

There was silence. Watson glowered at the gawking passersby, feeling increasingly irritated. "If you came to stare at the animals, you're in the wrong park." He said under his breath.

Holmes sat up, his cheek red from leaning on Watson's bony shoulder. "How's my hair?" He said, patting his hair in an affected foppish manner. "Have my golden tresses been disturbed?"

Watson narrowed his eyes at him. "I am not like that."

Holmes laughed. "Yes you are." He flicked his hair. "How's my hair, Holmes. Don't move those magazines, Holmes I put them there for a purpose. Stop smoking in bed, Holmes. Hurry up, Holmes. Shut up Holmes. Come here, Holmes. Bend over, H-

" _Shut up, Holmes_."

Holmes blinked innocently at him. "Yes, Watson."

Watson glowered at him. "Don't be so childish."

"Who were you muttering at anyway?" Holmes asked, staring around.

"Never mind." Watson said stiffly. "This is embarrassing. Everyone is looking at us."

"You should take that as a compliment," Holmes said, stroking Watson's nose with a finger. "You're just so bally handsome they just can't keep their eyes off of you."

"Shut up," Watson said, but with considerable less force than before. "I'm sick of sitting here."

Holmes looked thoughtful for half a moment. "Alright," He said, taking Watson's arm and dragging him upright with him. "Let's find somewhere more private."

Watson stared. "Wha-

He was pulled bodily through the trees behind them. There weren't many people here and as they walked on there were less and less. Most of them were sitting very close together, hands in places that made Watson's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. Watson spied a couple in the shade of one tree actually _kissing_. Perfectly indecorous, he thought disapprovingly as Holmes dragged him on.

They finally found a clump of trees to Holmes's tastes. There was no one around and the trees sheltered them like a natural fence all around. Holmes sat down cross-legged, slapping the suitcase down beside him. Watson glanced about.

"I don't know about sitting on the ground, Holmes." He said uncomfortably. "Is it wet?"

Holmes wiggled around. "Not particularly." He took his pipe out. "Sit down, Watson. Just relax for a moment. There's no need to hurry."

Watson looked around again. He couldn't see anyone. It was very unlikely that they'd be found here. With a defeated shrug, he sat down awkwardly on the grass. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat down on the floor like this. He felt foolish.

And the ground _was_ wet. He glared at Holmes. Holmes was lying down, his head resting on his suitcase.

"The ground is wet." Watson said.

Holmes glanced up at him. "Not very."

Watson moved uncomfortably on the damp grass. "There's going to be damp spots on my trousers."

"Wouldn't be the first t-

"Be quiet."

Holmes looked at him amusedly, and said nothing. He put his pipe between his teeth and his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. He seemed more than content just to lie there.

Watson stared around, feeling awkward. There was really nothing more that he wanted than to lie down next to Holmes and feel him beside him again, but he couldn't banish the thought from his mind that someone might discover them.

He hesitated, and then moved his suitcase so it was beside Holmes's. Without waiting for his mind to come to its senses, he hesitantly laid down beside the detective, resting his hands awkwardly on his stomach. Holmes opened an eye and smirked at him.

"So glad you decided to join me, Watson."

Watson stared at the canopy of leaves above, feeling his back, arse and legs becoming damp from the grass. "We're going to be all wet." He said half-heartedly, as Holmes's hand found his again.

"Think about all the people in this park," Holmes said quietly. "All these people with their sweethearts. Why should we be any different?"

"Because for one, that's kids' stuff and two, you are not my 'sweetheart'." Watson said, in a failed attempt to be firm. It was hard to be firm when Holmes was holding his hand.

"What am I then?" Holmes asked, turning onto his stomach and staring at Watson's face below him.

"More of a... sort of..." Watson fought a smile. "Wife."

"Wife!" Holmes spluttered.

"Well, I come home to you every night, don't I?" Watson said, enjoying the splotchy pink colour Holmes had gone.

"You're one to speak," Holmes retorted. "The way you're always preening and organizing and dusting and fussing." He paused. "And you're prettier."

"I'm not pretty." Watson said. "I have a moustache."

"A very pretty moustache." Holmes said, teasing it with his fingers.

"Stop it," Watson said, trying to bat Holmes's hand away. Holmes just laughed and rested his hand on Watson's chest.

Silence fell between them. Holmes examined Watson's face; he was so close he could see each of his individual eyelashes.

Holmes wanted to ask him something. He didn't know whether it was too soon. A part of him told him it would be better to just get it over and done with. He stared down at Watson's face. Watson wasn't looking at him; he was looking past him to the trees and sky above them.

Holmes studied Watson's face. He _was_ pretty. His high cheek bones, pale complexion, plump lips, long eyelashes. He was almost disgracefully pretty for a man. But Holmes would have to keep that knowledge to himself, Watson would never accept it and probably wouldn't appreciate it very much either.

Though, of course, there were other ways to tease him about it.

Holmes absentmindedly touched Watson's nipple.

Watson jumped, blinking at him. "What are you doing?"

"Conducting experiments in the pursuit of a cure for the common cold," Holmes said evenly, pinching Watson's nipple slightly and making the doctor's back curl.

"Wh-what?" Watson said confusedly, the jolts of pleasure taking him by surprise.

Holmes rolled his eyes. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're feeling my nipple." Watson said suspiciously.

"Congratulations, you're not as stupid as you look." Holmes said.

Watson watched him, not looking as though he believed him. Finally, he shook Holmes's hands away. "Whatever you're doing, stop it."

Holmes didn't seem to be listening; he was staring at Watson's chest. It was cold amongst the trees, within a few seconds Watson's nipple had gone hard, clearly visible beneath the material of his shirt. Holmes flicked it triumphantly.

"Ouch! Do you mind?" Watson said crossly, pulling his coat over himself again.

"Your nipples go hard with the cold and with arousal like a woman's." Holmes said, straight-faced. "I use this as testimony to your being far more wifely than me."

Watson stared at him and then scoffed. "That is hardly suitable criteria, as I'm sure that if I did this-

He rolled over, pinning Holmes on his back. Holmes squirmed slightly beneath him but Watson held him firmly down with his hips. He unbuttoned Holmes's coat and slid his hand underneath.

"You're wearing a vest." He said, tutting.

"It was cold this morning," Holmes breathed, his heart beating hard in his chest as Watson began to undo his buttons.

He tugged Holmes's vest up around his armpits, Holmes's eyes widened slightly but he didn't protest. Watson rubbed Holmes's nipple between his fingers and felt it harden almost immediately beneath his touch. "Well, that settles that." He said in a satisfied voice.

He looked at Holmes and blinked. Holmes was smiling slightly at him, his eyes glinting. "You're on top of me."

Watson blinked as he realised Holmes was right. He was almost completely on top of him, Holmes's legs were parted and Watson's knee was resting between them, one of his hands was holding Holmes's wrist while the other was still fondling his right nipple.

He realised abruptly how reckless he had been. With a sharp intake of breath, he attempted to roll off of Holmes, but he felt his hands tighten around his wrists.

"Holmes," He hissed. "Let me go. You'll have us both arrested."

"Kiss me." Holmes breathed.

"What! No!" Watson snapped, struggling fruitlessly against Holmes's stronger grip.

Holmes shrugged. "Well, I suppose we'll have just have to hope they think we're rehearsing a play." He smirked, kissing the tip of Watson's nose while the doctor fumed at him. "You'd make a lovely Juliet-

"Do you always have to act like a spoilt child to get your own way?" Watson demanded, staring down at the detective's amused expression.

"Come on," Holmes said, putting a hand on the back of Watson's neck. "Don't be a coward."

Watson felt like a child being baited into doing something naughty. In fact, perhaps it wasn't so unlike that at all. He sighed. "Fine." He leant down and brushed his lips against Holmes's.

He tried to pull away but Holmes's hand on the nape of his neck suddenly came into action, clamping down and forcing his mouth into a deeper kiss than he'd intended.

His eyes widened, he could see Homes almost laughing at him through the kiss. "Homph-

He glowered at Holmes, trying fruitlessly to yank himself away. Holmes responded by sticking his tongue in his mouth. "Homph!" Watson spluttered. " _Perferf_ -

Smirking, Holmes released his mouth and provocatively licked Watson's cheek. Watson recoiled, finally freeing himself from Holmes's grasp. He rubbed his cheek furiously. "That is _not_ amusing."

"I don't know," Homes said. "You look pretty amusing to me."

Watson sent him a filthy look and plucked a handkerchief from his sleeve, wiping Holmes's saliva off his face. "Well, I hope no one saw that. That was perfectly reckless."

"No one saw us," Holmes said calmly, making himself comfortable again on the ground and putting his hands behind his head. "You're so sweet when you're all flustered."

Watson stared at him disapprovingly. "If I wasn't going on holiday, I'd smack you across the face."

"Well, you can smack me across somewhere. But I'd prefer it wasn't my face." Holmes said peacefully, going back to fiddling with his pipe.

Watson made a sound between a choke and a laugh and hesitantly lay back down beside him.

They lay in silence. Holmes began to think again. He probably should speak and put to rest what was niggling at his mind. If he didn't do it now, he may never do it. He forced himself to pluck up the courage.

He turned onto his side. Watson jumped and edged away slightly. "What are you doing?" He said, unnerved.

"Nothing," Holmes said exasperatedly. "Why do you assume I'm about to force myself on you at the very slightest movement?"

"Because it's true." Watson said stubbornly.

Holmes watched him. Half of his hair was still sticking up in one of the best post-sex cowlicks Holmes had seen for a while. "Watson," He said quietly.

"Yes, Holmes."

Holmes paused. "Are you... happy?" He immediately felt himself blush when he said it. Blast it. Human emotions were so inconvenient.

Watson's eyes immediately opened, he peered up at Holmes. "Why? What's wrong?" He sat up.

"No, nothing," Holmes said hastily. "I'm fine. I'm just... Well, wondering if you feel... complete now." He wished he could find a better word than that. He could feel his cheeks burning.

Watson looked surprised. Then a smile crept onto his face. He slid his hand around Holmes's. "Of course I do. I feel more complete than I thought possible."

"Good," Holmes said softly. "I was just hoping... you know... you didn't feel-

"I am happy." Watson said firmly. "Inexplicably, undeservedly, incomparably happy. And I always will be, as long as I have you. I have no doubt in my mind that you are my soul mate."

Holmes's back arched with a slight shiver at the word. When Watson said it, it sounded so official and businesslike but it was still romantic to Holmes. _His soul mate._ He never thought mere words could make him feel so deliriously happy. He felt almost ashamed at how happy love was making him when a year ago he had been staunch in his belief that it didn't exist.

He realised he must have looked stunned because Watson took his chin, tilting his head up to look at him properly. "Are you sure you feel alright?"

"Fine," Holmes breathed, gazing up at him. "Never better."

"You look a bit dazed." Watson said softly, his lips so close to Holmes's they almost touched.

"I feel a bit dazed." Holmes said in barely louder than a whisper.

They stared at each other in silence. They were both blushing furiously and Holmes could see his own bashful pleasure reflected in Watson's eyes.

The snap of a twig interrupted their bliss. As though a pin had been stuck in his backside, Holmes jumped to his feet. Watson glanced up, feeling slightly dazed. His eyes widened.

A young couple had stumbled over them; they were wearing twin looks of surprise and confusion.

"So sorry," The man said, his eyes trailing from Holmes to Watson.

"He was just..." Holmes and Watson said in unison. "We were just-

They looked at each other. Watson was wearing a badly concealed expression of horror. He scrambled to his feet, taking his suitcase with him. "Leaving." Watson said in a strangled voice, taking Holmes's coat sleeve in hand.

Holmes stared at the young couple for a moment and then let Watson drag him back to the path, hardly taking notice of where they were going. Or what Watson was muttering.

He heard snatches of: _"So humiliating"_ and " _I told you"_ and, most often: _"Bloody irresponsible"_.

Holmes didn't feel particularly concerned. He thought it highly unlikely that a young, clearly romantically involved couple would really deeply care about what Holmes and Watson were doing. They probably had their own secrets to keep if they were hiding in trees.

They reached the gates and finally Watson turned to him. "That was the most foolish thing we've ever done. I can't believe how close we were when they saw us," He ran a hand agitatedly through his hair. "We were practically _kissing_."

Holmes laughed at Watson's scandalized expression. "Gosh, you're sweet," He stroked the tip of Watson's nose and walked past him. "Let's go catch our train."

He tugged Watson in the direction of the waiting cabs, grinning at the shell-shocked expression on Watson's face.

**oOo**

It was late afternoon by the time they had managed to reach Waterloo Station and find the station they were supposed to be on and the train they needed to catch. And it didn't help that both men had singularly different ideas about which way they had to go and how much time it would take to get there.

Finally, at some time past three o' clock they were aboard the train. Both of them were tired, cold and feeling considerably less energetic than when they'd left the park.

"I told you it was this platform." Holmes said, eyeing Watson over the top of the train timetable.

"A lucky guess," Watson replied sullenly, pushing their suitcases into the luggage compartment. "A very probable guess as well, seeing as we'd already been to basically every other platform at the station."

"Or I just have a better sense of direction," Holmes replied, folding the timetable. "Sit down. You're making me nervous."

Watson sat down opposite him. "We'll be there in three hours, so you had best get some sleep," He eyed Holmes's pale face and the ever-present shadows under his eyes. "Or something resembling sleep."

Holmes threw his feet up on the seat and leant against the window. "I think you're mistaking me for a bat. I don't sleep during the daylight hours."

Watson laughed bitterly. "Could have fooled me. You don't get up 'til all hours."

Watson had been trying to train Holmes into a normal sleeping pattern. He'd been coaxing Holmes to bed with sex (which almost always worked) in an attempt to get him to sleep by midnight. But he knew Holmes often lay awake long after he'd fallen asleep. He tried to stand vigil to make sure he didn't get up but his own body clock didn't usually make it past one in the morning at the latest.

"Well, we're on holiday now," Holmes said cheerfully. "We can stay in bed all day." He winked at Watson. "Doing whatever we like."

"It's a working holiday," Watson replied flatly. "You're going to be gone all day. I'll be left all alone."

"I promise I will make lots of time to canoodle with you," Holmes said, as though he were appeasing a demanding little child.

"Canoodle indeed," Watson said. "If I carted you off to the country for a "working holiday", you'd be moaning and complaining no end."

"Firstly," Holmes said. "Bath is not really "the country", secondly I never complain, I merely critique and thirdly you are perhaps the most work obsessed man I've ever known and would probably cart me off to India if it was necessary."

"I am not obsessed," Watson said staunchly. "Being a doctor is different to your profession, we have set hours. We have patients."

"Do you know," Holmes said, ignoring him. "I've made an interesting observation."

"I'll bet," Watson said, sounding put out.

"When you've had a particularly hard day at work, nine out of ten times, you will _always_ want to be taken," Holmes said thoughtfully. "Rather than to take me."

" _What_?" Watson spluttered.

"It's true," Holmes said seriously. "I've noticed it."

Watson flushed. "How could anyone-

"But," Holmes went on as though he hadn't spoken. "When you've been lying around or you haven't been to work at all, you become perfectly _bestial_ in bed." Holmes paused, clearly enjoying Watson's discomfort. "And I have a theory."

Watson narrowed his eyes. "I'll bet."

"It's because when you've spent all day dominating others and playing Mister know-it-all doctor, you like to come home and be... well, disciplined." Holmes smirked, Watson flushed even darker. "And when you've been lying around all day doing nothing, you build up all this angry, sexual energy and need to work it off." He paused. "But I could be wrong. Who am I to speculate on your sexual habits?"

Watson, in spite of himself, thought Holmes had every right to speculate on his sexual habits seeing as he was the only one he slept with.

After a moment, Watson cleared his throat. "I'm not entirely thrilled about this particular strand of deduction."

"Watson," Holmes laughed. "You _do_ know I'm joking, don't you?"

"Oh, thank God," Watson said, incredibly relieved.

"When we make love, your motive is the _last_ thing on my mind," Holmes said disdainfully.

Watson raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Sometimes, Holmes, your sense of humour is positively diabolical."

They rode in virtual silence for the next hour. Watson read, keeping one eye on Holmes over the top of his book. It began to rain not thirty minutes into the journey and soon after, the rain had become a storm. Holmes, despite being confident in his ability to stave off sleep, dozed off some time after four and only awoke when a particularly loud clap of thunder startled him.

He shot upright, staring at Watson in alarm. Watson jumped. He'd never seen anyone wake up so abruptly. "Are you alright?" He asked.

Holmes looked about slowly, as though just remembering where he was. He stared out of the window where rain was streaming down in sheets. Every so often the sky was completely lit up by lightning. "Nothing. I thought- Nothing."

He avoided Watson's eye.

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Alright then..." He went back to his book, though he couldn't concentrate now with Holmes staring about and fidgeting across from him.

"We're almost there, Holmes," He said through gritted teeth. "Try and find something constructive to do."

"I _am_ doing something constructive," Holmes replied. "I'm thinking."

"Well, think with less movement." Watson said.

Holmes made a face at him and went back to fidgeting.

Watson couldn't focus now. He tried a fruitless ten minutes longer to concentrate on reading and then finally gave up, flinging the book beside him.

He glanced out of the window, to the darkening sky outside. He started. His own face was reflected in the window. A tuft of his hair was sticking up like a flag in the middle of his head.

"Holmes," He said reproachfully, forcefully flattening it.

Holmes glanced up and had to swallow a laugh. "I thought it suited you."

"So I suppose _this_ ," Watson jabbed a finger at his head. "Has been thus all day."

Holmes just shrugged at him, smiling. "It doesn't matter to me what your hair looks like." He leant across and ran his fingers through Watson's hair.

Watson sighed, shaking Holmes's hands out of his hair. "Do you have to?" He said in a pained voice.

"I like it when you look like you've just got out of bed," Holmes said, moving to the edge of his seat. He leant across to Watson's ear. "It arouses me." He breathed.

Watson choked slightly and pushed him away. "That's hardly incentive enough."

Holmes just smirked. "Whatever you say, Doctor Watson."

**oOo**

It was still pouring when they reached Bath and they had to make a heroic dash for a cab and then another to reach the door of the hotel. The sun had gone down and Watson could barely see a thing and he couldn't help marvelling at Holmes's ability to find the right hotel in the rain and darkness.

The room was large and even had a bathroom attached and comfortably fit two double beds side by side without seeming cramped.

They threw their suitcases on the far bed and both collapsed on the other.

"I'm exhausted." Watson said numbly, staring at the ceiling.

Holmes grunted in reply, he rested his head on Watson's chest."Too tired to get undressed." He mumbled.

"If we hadn't taken that big long bloody walk," Watson said wearily. "You wouldn't be so tired." He tried to stifle a yawn. "We haven't eaten anything all day. Are you hungry?"

Holmes nestled into his side. "If you're offering to carry me to dinner and buy it. Otherwise, no."

"Well, you have to eat," Watson said firmly. "We should go and get some food."

"Mmm," Holmes mumbled, not opening his eyes.

Watson stared at the ceiling and didn't move. He sighed and slid his arm around Holmes's waist. "Alright. But we're having a big breakfast."

Holmes snuffled slightly and Watson realised he was already asleep.

**oOo**

When Watson awoke the following morning they were both still where they had fallen the night before. They both still had their coats on. Holmes was fast asleep and he had drooled all over Watson's shirt.

"Ugh," Watson said, wrinkling his nose at the feel of the dampness against his skin. "Holmes, wake up." He shook Holmes gently.

Holmes grunted. "Wha-

Watson sat up. Holmes slid off his chest, opening his eyes blearily. "It can't be morning." He said thickly. Half of his face was imprinted with Watson's buttons.

Watson cradled his head. "Ouch," He mumbled. "My head feels like it's full of bricks."

Holmes stumbled to his feet. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair looked strangely windswept. "I have to hurry and go." He said.

"You can't go like that," Watson said. "You look dreadful."

Holmes scowled at him. "Thanks."

"Just change your clothes and comb your hair." Watson said hastily, waving a hand at the suitcases on the opposite bed.

Holmes nodded, opening his own suitcase and searching about for trousers and a shirt. "What are you going to do today?"

Watson stared down at the patch of saliva on the front of his shirt. "I don't know. Perhaps I'll go for a walk."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow at him over his shoulder. "You're such an old man. Why don't you go and get drunk or something?"

Watson ignored him. "Where are you going anyway?"

Holmes laid his trousers and a shirt out on the bedcovers. "I'm going to visit the family and have a look at where the body was found." He said, unbuttoning his shirt.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?" Watson asked.

Holmes threw his used shirt over his shoulder. "No, you're on holiday," Holmes said firmly. "I want you to enjoy yourself." He pulled on his fresh shirt.

Watson fell backwards onto the covers, watching Holmes dress himself out of the corner of his eye. "Well, if you need my help," He said meekly. "I'll be here."

Holmes looked at him amusedly. "If I need your help I will ask, I promise. You know I'd never turn my nose up at your help."

"I know," Watson said. "I'm just wondering what I'm supposed to do by myself."

"I can think of a few things you could do by yourself," Holmes smirked, smoothing his shirt.

"Very funny," Watson said flatly. "I was thinking more ice-cream and a good book-

"You can incorporate ice-cream into it if you like," Holmes said, turning to him. "But make sure you do it when I'm home. How do I look?"

Watson sat up. Holmes's hair was a mess and his clothes looked a bit ruffled from being shoved unceremoniously in a suitcase but by his usual standards he actually looked quite smart. "Dashing." Watson said.

"Well, naturally," Holmes said, slipping back into his coat. He leant down and kissed Watson gently. "I'll see you tonight. Don't do anything I wouldn't."

"That won't be a problem." Watson said against his lips.

Holmes laughed and stroked his cheek with a finger. "Goodbye."

Watson watched him go. The door closed and he was alone.

**oOo**

Watson spent the first hour or so tidying all of their clothes away and getting dressed and making himself presentable. Unlike Holmes he wasn't happy with the way he looked until his hair was combed, his clothes were immaculate and he had had a shave.

He stepped out shortly after midday, already feeling bored and unnerved by his solitude. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been alone for longer than an hour. Even at work he was never alone and he certainly couldn't have gotten an hour alone at home even if he'd wanted it.

It had stopped raining but it was still overcast and cold. There weren't many people about; they seemed all to have found employment inside. He went to a cafe and bought coffee and breakfast, realising abruptly how starving he was when he found how eagerly he wolfed down his bacon and eggs.

And then he sat on a bench by the river and felt utterly clueless as to what the hell he was supposed to do. He watched the few passersby, tapping his nails impatiently on his knee and passing his cane from hand to hand. He was already thinking about Holmes and what Holmes might be doing and when Holmes might finish and come back.

Can't you be by yourself for longer than ten minutes without pining for him? He thought to himself crossly.

He could imagine Holmes's smug expression if he found Watson desperately awaiting his return.

He had to amuse himself at least for a day. It was pathetic that he couldn't be by himself for one miserable day. He had to prove to himself as well as Holmes that he was still self-sufficient; that what he had suffered this last year had not rendered him helpless.

He lined up a range of activities in his head. He went to the bookshop and perused almost every book they had in stock until the shopkeeper's strange looks finally got the better of him and he left. He travelled into central Bath and set about visiting every historical site within walking or driving distance. By four in the afternoon he had visited the old Roman baths, stared at the Pump Room for about thirty minutes without daring to go in, visited The Circus and Pulteney Bridge.

He found himself back at the Roman Baths when the crowds had thinned shortly after four. It was more rewarding with less people to share the site with.

He left a little before five before he was thrown out and took a cabriolet back to the river. The sky was already threatening to darken above him. He found a bench to collapse onto, his legs were aching enormously from the torture he'd put them through, but he otherwise felt happy. He'd spent an entire day (well, at least three quarters of a day) out of Holmes's company and he felt like he had achieved something. He had also proved to himself that he could do it.

He gave himself ten minutes to recover and then stood up. His thighs gave an ache of protest but he knew that it would be unwise to stay out after nightfall. He didn't know Bath well enough to make a bet on whether he'd be able to find the hotel in the darkness.

Leaning hard on his cane, he began limping back to North Parade. He couldn't see anyone lingering about near the river at this time of the day. He supposed it wasn't salubrious for respectable people.

He hadn't gone far when a bicycle suddenly came out of nowhere, almost grazing him as it passed. He felt a less than gentle tug of his back pocket. He absentmindedly touched it and his eyes grew wide.

"My wallet!" He cried, staring after the bicycle. "Hey!"

He made a half-hearted attempt to chase them but the pain in his leg was too much. He scooped up a handful of pebbles and threw them ineffectually after him. "You bastard!"

He stood helplessly where he was, watching them escaping with all the money he had. "Fuck you." He snarled. "You bastard."

Then, to his surprise, they suddenly wheeled around and came back towards him. Watson felt frozen where he was. He wished sincerely he hadn't called them a bastard. He had a feeling he was about to get lynched.

He knew it would be useless to run so he armed himself with his cane. They would regret coming back to taunt him. Especially when he bashed them over the head.

They neared him and Watson aimed his cane like a cricket bat ready to swing it at their forehead. However, his efforts turned out to be in vain. He underestimated how effective a bicycle could be as a weapon. As they neared him they caught him under the heel with their foot and he lost his balance. His cane was wrenched from his hand and he toppled backwards over the bank of the river into the dark water below. He narrowly missed hitting his head.

The water was like ice and tasted disgusting. He struggled to keep above water. He'd never be a great swimmer at the best of times but his bad leg and his recently healed arm made it almost impossible. In between sinking and rising in the water he saw the man fling his cane down into the water after him. Then he swung his leg back over his bicycle and rode away without a backwards glance.

Watson struggled over to the bank and threw himself onto it, feeling like a drowned rat. He spat a mouthful of water out and crawled his way upright. His mouth tasted like dirt and he was soaked from head to toe. He looked around but the man had disappeared. He stared down at the water. His cane bobbed about on the surface like a long, thin black log.

"Perfect." He muttered, waddling across to the bench and falling into it.

He had no idea how he was going to get back now, the loss of his cane rendered walking very difficult. And he had no money. "Perfect." He snarled. "What the hell do I do now?"

He knew what he had to do. He had to walk back to the hotel. He'd have to ask whoever he could find for directions and just limp his way home. He couldn't think of any other solution. He wasn't content to sit on a bench all night and die of pneumonia. Besides, Holmes would probably send out a search party if he was any later than seven.

So he struggled his way upright and began a low and painful route back to North Parade.

He asked a policeman the directions to the hotel which he mercifully remembered the name of and considered mentioning the robbery but he decided there was little point. He'd lost ten pounds and taken a dunking in the River Avon but he wasn't really any worse for wear, despite being soaked through.

"Caught in that shower we had this morning, were you?" Asked the policeman ironically, looking up and down Watson's sodden figure.

"Something like that." Watson mumbled.

With the policeman's directions to guide him, Watson found the hotel with little trouble. It wasn't a long walk but it took its toll on him. By the time he had arrived in the lobby he was shivering from head to toe and barely able to stand from the pain in his legs.

Unsurprisingly perhaps, the man at the desk was reluctant to let him go up and didn't seem prepared to take his word that he was actually a guest there.

"I dropped my wallet in the river," Watson said patiently, leaning heavily on the desk. "I'm not lying! Why the hell would I lie? Check my name! John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, room 101. Check it!"

But the man was still not convinced and a bellboy was sent up to fetch Holmes to settle the matter.

The bellboy returned ten minutes later looking annoyed. "He wouldn't open the door," He said. "And I know he's inside. He was smoking."

"Bloody typical," Watson muttered. "Well, can you fetch the manager?" He said, forcing himself to be civil. "He knows me. He checked us in."

The man finally agreed and disappeared to get him. They returned a moment later.

"Doctor Watson!" The manager said, his eyebrows shooting up at the speed of light when he saw Watson's appearance. "What on earth happened?" He glared at the man beside him as though he might be responsible for Watson being soaking wet and smelling of pond weed.

"I fell in the river," Watson said tiredly. "Can I please go up to my room?"

"Yes, yes. Of course," The manager said hurriedly. "Go right up. I can't imagine why my staff made difficulties." He sent the man a steely look.

Watson nodded wearily and dragged himself up the stairs to the landing. He practically crawled up the three flights of stairs to his and Holmes's room and only just managed to straighten up to knock on the door of 101.

There was no response. "Holmes!" He yelled, conscious of the slight slur to his voice. "Lemmeen."

There were immediate footsteps and a second later the door was flung open. Watson swayed where he stood, leaning heavily on the doorframe. Holmes was taken aback. "My God, Watson! What the hell happened?"

"I... feel... a little..." Watson rocked where he was, struggling to keep his balance. Holmes hurriedly caught him, putting one hand under his arm and the other around his waist.

"What happened?" He repeated, supporting Watson to the bed.

Watson all but disintegrated over the covers. He lay panting where he was, still feeling freezing cold despite the warmth of the room. Holmes sat down beside him, looking highly concerned. He pressed a hand to his forehead. "I'd better get you out of those clothes." He said, and for once the words sounded highly unsexy. "Or you'll catch your death."

Watson nodded wearily, managing to sit upright so Holmes could hastily undo the buttons on his shirt and trousers. He shook his shirt off and let Holmes pull his vest over his head. Getting his trousers off was far more difficult, his legs didn't seem prepared to support his weight so he lay on his back and Holmes tugged them off. He felt too exhausted to be bashful. He was left lying just in his underwear. He wished sincerely that he hadn't worn a union suit today.

He could see Holmes struggling not to smirk at his choice of undergarment. "Shut up, Holmes." He said numbly.

Holmes forcefully straightened his face and knelt down by Watson. "What happened?" He said, stroking back Watson's damp fringe.

"I got pushed in the river." Watson said stiffly.

Holmes's face twitched. "Really."

"Shut _up_ ," Watson said, rolling onto his stomach with a groan. "It's not funny."

Holmes sat down on the bed beside him. "No, I know. It's not." He said hurriedly. "But how in God's name did you manage it? Who did you insult?"

"No one," Watson said into his pillow. "I got... mugged." He didn't know if being robbed by one man on a bicycle was strictly speaking a 'mugging' but he took poetic licence.

"Mugged!" Holmes exclaimed. "How! By whom? Did you tell the police? Are you hurt! Come here-

He forcefully turned Watson back onto his back and stared at his face. "You don't have any bruises. Did they kick you? How much money did they take?"

Watson shook his head. "Only my wallet, there was ten pounds in there."

"Did they hurt you very badly?" Holmes said anxiously, resting a hand on Watson's forehead.

"Not very." Watson said meekly. "But I just got away. There were at least five of them." He decided that he might as well make it a good story.

Holmes made a furious noise between his teeth. "If I ever get my hands on them... The police were useless as usual, no doubt?" He tutted. "Typical. It's the same wherever you go."

"Mmph," Watson nuzzled into Holmes's stomach, wanting very much for the conversation to change topic. "And I've lost my cane. So I don't quite know how I'm supposed to get about now."

"God, Watson. I leave you alone for one day and you almost get yourself killed," Holmes said, sounding genuinely amazed. "Perhaps you should just stay in and read a book tomorrow."

Watson grunted in reply, not moving from his comfortable position in Holmes's arms. He felt ready to fall asleep where he was but he could feel the wet patch he was leaving on Holmes's lap and he doubted whether Holmes would oblige.

"You'd better change into something dry," Holmes said, stroking his hair. "That... eh underwear is soaked."

"Just say it," Watson said in a muffled voice into Holmes's stomach. "I'm a prat."

"You can do some astoundingly moronic things," Holmes said, sliding a hand down the curve of Watson's back. "But I wouldn't say you're a prat." He squeezed Watson's arse with a laugh. Watson shot upright.

"Ouch! I wish you wouldn't do that..." He said, rubbing himself indignantly.

Holmes stood up. "Come on. Get dressed."

Watson stood up, his legs felt like lead and his knees buckled slightly. Holmes hurriedly took his waist as though he thought he was about to collapse where he stood. "I'm fine, Holmes," Watson said, shaking Holmes's hands off of him. "Just a bit sore."

Holmes sat down on the edge of the bed parallel, watching him silently.

Watson put his hands on his hips. "Do you have to stare at me?"

Holmes crossed his legs offhandedly. "I'm just making sure you don't hurt yourself."

Watson narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm fine. I just need some privacy."

Holmes covered his eyes with his hands. Watson could see his brown eyes blinking innocently at him through the gaps in his fingers. "Off you go."

"Very funny..." Watson said irritably, beginning to undress. He was too exhausted to argue.

He could see Holmes's dark eyes glinting beneath his hands, his eyelids slowly opening and closing as he watched Watson undress himself. His eyes were glued to the slither of Watson's chest emerging from the ugly union suit. His eyes caressed Watson's tanned skin, the light curls of his chest hair, the dark circles of his nipples standing erect from the cold water.

Holmes dropped his hands to his lap, blinking appealingly at Watson, silently begging him to continue. He bit his lip, his burgeoning arousal obvious.

Watson sighed inwardly. He had a feeling that he would pay for this later. Gathering his courage, he began to peel the suit off. His skin was wet and cold beneath it. Holmes watched as inch by inch Watson revealed himself and inch by inch Holmes got harder.

He knew it would be highly insensitive to force himself on Watson after he'd suffered such a trauma but it was impossible not to admire Watson's exquisite figure.

Watson shimmied the union suit down his thighs and kicked it across the floor. It sat like a soggy cotton puddle on the carpet. He stood awkwardly in front of Holmes, resisting the urge to cover himself up. Holmes's eyes were hungrily taking in every inch of Watson's nude form, paying particularly heed to his lower-half. Watson could feel spasms of pleasure occasionally pulsing down between his legs but he managed to keep them in hand.

Holmes was gnawing on his lip, looking positively distressed as Watson snatched his bed shirt from the end of the bed. "Oh don't." He moaned. "God, you're so damned... _perfect_."

Watson blushed, though he felt a tiny embarrassed flicker of pleasure at Holmes's high praise. "Hardly." He fingered the many scars that crisscrossed his body. He flexed the fingers on the arm he had injured the night Mary died, it was slightly shorter than his other now. It was barely noticeable but Watson seemed to consider it some hideous disfigurement.

Holmes stood up; he removed his coat and crossed the floor to Watson. He looked up at Watson's face, his cheeks were slightly flushed. "You're insane if you don't appreciate your own beauty." He breathed, knowing he would seriously regret this when he had to leave Watson alone that night. His cock was already aching in a protesting repetition. "This chest..." He ran his hands down Watson's chest, moving his finger slowly over Watson's hardened nipples. "This stomach..." He traced the faint scars with his fingers. "And this..." He touched Watson's prick with a heated palm. "Perfect."

He felt the doctor jerk like an electric shock had gone through him. "Don't." He said, realising his mouth was unnervingly close to Holmes's. "I can't do this tonight."

Holmes deflated. "Oh, I know. I know. I'm sorry." He forced himself to step away. He was going to completely lose control if he didn't be careful.

He kept his back to Watson, thinking it best if he kept his distance until Watson was safely covered.

Watson pulled the nightshirt over his head, it was slightly too short and stuck to his wet skin but it was much more comfortable than his soaked union suit. "It's alright, Holmes." He said, tugging back the covers. "You can look."

Holmes slowly turned around where he was. He watched Watson slide beneath the covers, the bed shirt rose around his ribs and Holmes could imagine the sight below the covers. He wished he hadn't worked himself up into such a state. It would take some effort to sleep that night with Watson's naked lower half located some few inches beside him.

Watson peered at him over the covers. "Are you coming to bed?" He said drowsily.

Holmes nodded. "In a moment."

Watson closed his eyes. Holmes hurriedly searched for his own nightshirt in the wardrobe where Watson had dutifully hung all of their clothes.

With a hurried look at Watson's peaceful figure, Holmes tore off his shirt and trousers and hurriedly yanked the nightshirt over his head. He was very eager to join Watson beneath the covers.

He dimmed the oil lamp on his way to the bed and slipped into the far side of the bed, worming his way beside Watson.

Watson opened his eyes partly. "That was quick."

Holmes didn't reply, he moved closer to Watson, running a toe up the doctor's smooth, muscular calve. Watson shivered and turned onto his side so Holmes could huddle up behind him. Holmes held the doctor tightly against him, trying to ignore the erection that would not subside.

He knew that if he was a more sensible man he would have moved to the very furthest side of the bed and think radically unappealing thoughts to quell his inconvenient arousal. But Sherlock Holmes was not well-known for his good sense. And very few people know what's good for them and even fewer care to know.

He felt Watson growing limp in his arms. His breathing was become slow and deep against him. Holmes knew he was asleep even before he started to snore softly.

Holmes lay where he was, brooding on his discomfort. He knew he should have been enjoying the sensation of having Watson safe in his arms after his ordeal but the stiffness between his legs was stubbornly refusing to quell. No matter what grotesque visions he conjured in his mind, his own body did not seem to believe him and ignored his attempts to control himself.

He listened to Watson's soft breathing. He was probably in a deep sleep.

Holmes gently released him from his arms, listening carefully. Watson didn't even stir. Holmes gently pinched the soft flesh on the back of the doctor's arm, expecting him to awake immediately. But Watson remained asleep; his breathing didn't hitch for a moment.

Holmes shrugged to himself and thread his arms around Watson's waist again. He waited a moment; his erection was pinned against the small of Watson's back. Gently, slowly he began to rub himself against Watson, pushing carefully against him to ensure that he didn't apply too much pressure. The sensation was barely more than the lightest touch, his body begged for friction.

This is truly wanton, he thought to himself. Watson would have been furious if he knew what Holmes was doing to him. Holmes could have almost laughed if he wasn't so cautious of waking Watson.

He gently pushed his cock into the base of Watson's spine, careful to avoid the pressure point that was located just below. If he pushed _there_ , Watson would most definitely awaken.

He held Watson's half-dressed figure against him, rocking his hips ineffectually against him. The friction was inadequate and with Watson unresponsive and flaccid against him, it was more like thrusting against a corpse than a lover.

With a sigh Holmes released Watson from his arms and rolled out of the covers, onto the carpet. He wandered past the collection of letters on the other bed.

He locked himself in the bathroom. He was determined to work off every inch of his arousal before he got back into bed with Watson or he didn't know what he might do.


	31. The End

Watson was woken abruptly at ten past two in the morning by a light glowing through the darkness from the crack between the bathroom door and the carpet.

He sat up, blinking blearily and stretching his still slightly sore legs out under the covers. He rubbed his eyes and glanced beside him to where Holmes lay.

"Holmes?" He said confusedly, as he realised that the covers were thrown back from Holmes's side of the bed and the detective was nowhere to be seen.

Watson listened for the sound of Holmes in the bathroom. He expected to hear the water running or the sound of the water closet but there was silence. There weren't even footsteps. Watson swallowed.

He stepped gingerly down onto the carpet. The fireplace was burning low, sending an eerie yellow glow across the floor. "Holmes?" He hissed.

There was silence. Watson stared across the room to the bed opposite. It was empty. Watson bit his lip. He felt a flutter of panic in his chest.

"Holmes!"

He hurried to the hallway door and threw it open. The hallway was empty. The lights were dimmed. Watson slammed it closed and stared around the room, his heart pounding.

He ran a clammy hand through his hair. He was trying to think what could have compelled Holmes to leave him in the middle of the night. Most likely it was a lead on his case. But he would have woken Watson. Surely, he would have.

He stood frozen in the middle of the room, trying to quell a growing sense of dread.

That dread became full-blown panic when the bathroom door suddenly creaked on its hinges.

He heard a scream leave his mouth of a tone he wasn't even aware he could still reach.

Holmes's bemused, sleep dulled eyes widened and he stopped short in the doorway. "W-what's wrong?" He asked confusedly, staring around.

Watson stared at him; his heart almost bursting out of his chest. "What the hell were you doing in there?" He spluttered.

Holmes pushed his fringe out of his face. "I... I was just..." He rubbed his forehead. "Nothing."

Watson put his hands on his hips. "You almost gave me heart failure. I thought..." He hesitated.

Holmes didn't seem to be listening; he shuffled over to the bed and flopped down on his back. "Why are you up?"

"I woke up and you were gone." Watson said quietly, conscious of the note of accusation in his voice.

Holmes yawned. "I couldn't sleep."

"Why were you in the bathroom?" Watson said disbelievingly. "Were you sleeping in there?"

"I didn't want to disturb you." Holmes said with a shrug.

Watson stared at him. He felt a flicker of annoyance. "Well, it seems very odd that you would lock yourself in the bathroom. You could have at least woken me to tell me."

Holmes sat up, laughing humourlessly. "I can just imagine how pleased you would be if I woke you up in the middle of the night to notify you of my planning to go into the bathroom." He paused, studying Watson's face. "What is the matter? I'm sure you're not being serious." He paused, raising an eyebrow. "Or are you?"

Watson twisted his nightshirt in his hands. He was feeling increasingly stupid. "I..." He stared at the ground, begging himself not to blush.

"Oh, my sweet Watson," Holmes said fondly. "Did you think I'd left you?"

"No..." Watson said awkwardly.

Holmes stood up, gently tugging Watson towards him. Watson sheepishly met his eye. "You were." Holmes said wryly, studying Watson's face. "That was quite an impressive scream. I wasn't aware you could still reach that note."

"Shut up." Watson said, blushing furiously. "You gave me a terrible fright."

"Mmm I'm sorry." Holmes said, kissing him gently. "But you should know by now that I'm hardly going to just run off. It's taken a terrible amount of effort to make you mine. I'm not taking that for granted."

"I didn't think you'd run off." Watson said in a muffled voice as Holmes pressed his mouth against him again.

Holmes put his arms around Watson's neck, gazing up at the taller man. "Do you want to know the truth?" He smiled sheepishly.

Watson frowned at him. "Yes, of course."

Holmes eyed him knowingly. "I went into the bathroom to... relieve tension." He paused. "If you understand my meaning."

Watson did understand. "Holmes!" He exclaimed, pulling away. "That's revolting!"

"Oh, please," Holmes said, not letting go of Watson's neck. "I'll wager I do it less than you."

"Poppycock." Watson mumbled.

"I promise you're the only one I think of." Holmes said softly, staring at Watson's soft mouth just a few inches from his.

"I don't want to know!" Watson exclaimed, though he stopped struggling.

Holmes pressed his lips into Watson's neck. "It's almost three," He said softly, feeling the doctor shiver slightly at the vibrations Holmes's lips made against his skin. "Everyone is in bed."

Watson shivered against him. "You should go to bed too." He muttered, tilting his head as Holmes began to nuzzle into the sensitive flesh beneath his jaw.

"I'm not tired." Holmes said, looking up at Watson from under his eyelashes.

Watson felt a pulse in his stomach. "No," He said weakly, shaking his head. "No, no. We can't."

Holmes licked Watson's neck and listened with satisfaction as the breath caught in the doctor's throat. "That nightshirt of yours is very thin, Watson. It doesn't cover very much at all." He slid a hand down and touched the subtle bump between Watson's legs.

Watson flushed and pulled himself away, tugging the hem of his shirt down.

He could feel the heat and blood rushing to his groin. "You know we can't. Everyone will hear us." Watson said, very conscious of Holmes's eyes roaming all over him. "These walls are paper thin."

Holmes reached a hand across and stroked Watson's chin. "Don't tell me you're frightened." He said, smiling slightly.

He turned and knelt on the bed, Watson wanted to look away but his eyes refused to obey.

He watched in agony as Holmes turned to face him, his figure almost completely imprinted against the thin nightshirt. Slowly, he pulled the flimsy garment over his head, revealing his figure inch by inch. His firm upper-arms, his muscular, creamy torso and the dark patch of pubic hair, sitting in curls around his already partly-erect cock.

Watson weakly shook his head, unable to look away as Holmes dropped the nightshirt onto the floor. He tried, fruitlessly, not to openly ogle Holmes's naked form but his eyes seemed to have their own agenda as they hungrily roamed up and down Holmes's body. Holmes was perfect. He must have known it; he seemed completely at ease in the nude while Watson couldn't stand to be naked, even in front of Holmes.

Holmes delighted in the way Watson stared at him, unable to look away. Having Watson's eyes on him, knowing how he desired him was the most exhilarating sensation he had ever experienced.

"Holmes," Watson said reproachfully. "You're depraved."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "At least I admit to it." He nodded towards the front of Watson's nightshirt.

Watson looked down; he was protruding through the material. He bit his lip. "Don't make a sound." He ordered, finally going to the bed.

Holmes received him triumphantly into his arms. He wasted no time, immediately tugging Watson's nightshirt over his head, tossing it across the floor and pulling him onto the bed beside him. Watson knelt against Holmes, wobbling slightly on his sore legs.

"If the hotel staff aren't used to the sounds of people fucking by now," Holmes said wryly. "They never will be."

Watson was helplessly aware of Holmes's warm form against him and every unconscious caress and touch of his body. "I don't suppose it matters a straw to you," He breathed. "If they hear us or not."

Holmes rolled his hips forward, pinning their heated flesh together. Watson exhaled, rubbing himself instinctively against Holmes. "If you get any harder, it might snap off." Holmes teased, reaching down and gently stroking a finger down Watson's straining cock.

"Ah!" Watson gritted his teeth, trying to heed his own warning and stay quiet. "Holmes."

Holmes didn't seem to hear him. He clasped their twin erections, rubbing them purposefully against each other. Pleasure pulsed powerfully through Watson's stomach down to the tip of his cock. He threw his head back, trying desperately not to cry out.

" _Holmes_." He snapped, pushing Holmes away to create the barest of spaces between them. His privates immediately ached for contact again. He could hardly keep control of his body and the desire to rub himself against Holmes again.

Holmes saw it; he knew how painfully Watson desired him. "What are you afraid of?" He said, lowering his eyes to Watson's hard, aroused flesh. He eyed it with satisfaction; he knew that Watson's desperation, the fierce and burning lust that was pumping through him was all his doing.

Holmes leant back, admiring Watson's figure on the rumpled white covers. He traced his eyes down Watson's skin, the tanned shoulders, the strong arms, the flat and slightly paler stomach with the crisscross of scars. The tussle of fair hair between his nipples and that which led like a little pathway down from his navel to the space between his legs. Watson awkwardly tried to cover himself, conscious of Holmes's eyes on him.

"Don't you dare. I need to look at you," Holmes said huskily, gripping Watson's wrists. "Put those by your sides or I'll tie them behind your back."

Watson shivered without being able to stop himself. His legs began to tremble slightly. He grasped onto Holmes's shoulders for support. The thoughts that Holmes's words had sparked in his mind were almost overwhelmingly erotic.

Something deep in his stomach told him that he wanted very much for Holmes to tie his hands behind his back; he wanted to be at the mercy of Holmes. But he had never considered such a thing before. His sex gave a painful, needy throb.

Holmes raised an eyebrow, too adept to miss Watson's violent reaction to his words. "Do you want me to tie you up?" He said quietly, feeling a slow trickle of heat rush through his form at his own words. "You do, don't you?" He said slowly. "It arouses you, the thought of being in bonds." Every word was heated, heavy with intent and lust.

Watson looked at him, his eyes hazy. Holmes stared back at him, willing him to say yes, willing him to give himself to Holmes.

The very thought of having such possession over Watson's body and having him wholly at his mercy was indescribable. A begging, writhing, moaning Watson completely and utterly at his mercy. He shivered all over.

Watson said nothing. Holmes didn't expect him to ask without encouragement. He was too proud. But he wanted it. Holmes knew it. He was begging for it, he was silently begging for it. Holmes knew it, but he wanted him to say it; he wanted to hear Watson say the words.

"Tell me you want it," He hissed.

Watson bit his lip, leaning heavily against Holmes's chest. "Ah," He gasped, the relentless throbbing of his erection seeming to disable his ability to think clearly. "Holmes..." He said, lowering his eyes.

"Say it," Holmes said, wanting more than anything to hear him beg. "Say it and I'll give you what you want."

Watson met his eye, his eyes slightly damp with the effort of bridling his arousal. "Tie me... up." He said hoarsely, his voice almost failing him.

Holmes couldn't help but lean forward and kiss the doctor. The words were like an aphrodisiac and if it had been physically possible, he was sure he would have gotten even harder.

He slid off of the bed, keeping his eyes on Watson's. Watson watched him hungrily, shifting from knee to knee on the bed covers. He ran his fingers down his chest, something which almost took Holmes's breath away. It almost made him wet where he stood.

Watson ran his trembling fingers down his stomach to his stiff, aroused sex.

"Now, now," Holmes croaked, having to gather every inch of self-control he had not to just watch Watson fondle himself to completion. "That's enough."

Watson stopped short of his privates, his fingers quivering under his navel. "I... can't..." He panted.

Holmes cocked an eyebrow, he didn't want the power he had over Watson to go to his head but he felt a slow, intoxicating thrill drip through his lower stomach. "Don't you dare touch yourself or I will make you regret it." His voice was sharp, it even surprised him and it certainly surprised Watson who stopped fidgeting immediately, staring at him with wide blue eyes and lips slightly parted.

He watched as Holmes bent down slowly to his fallen dressing gown on the carpet and plucked the tie from around it.

Holmes had no idea what he was doing. He had picked up the first thing he had found and he hoped that his tying skills weren't either too flimsy or too effective. He could imagine Watson's chagrin if he had to hunt down a pair of scissors and cut him out of his bonds.

He returned to the bed, this time kneeling behind Watson. Watson turned his head, seeming slightly alarmed to have Holmes out of his sight.

Holmes pressed his lips to the arch of Watson's neck, breathing in the smell of perspiration and the faintest trace of cologne left behind by the river water. Watson touched Holmes's hair, making the tiniest of whimpers as Holmes pressed his body against his.

He arched his back, grinding the soft flesh of his arse into Holmes's cock. Holmes gasped at the sensation and felt a slither of electricity go down his groin.

He forced himself to move away and shrugged off Watson's hand, which was still caressing his hair. Watson dropped it by his side, barely daring to move. His legs were quivering slightly; in fact he seemed to be quivering all over.

"Hands." Holmes said, feeling like a headmaster giving orders.

Watson obeyed, putting his hands behind his back. Holmes touched them; Watson's fingers were trembling. Using all of his limited knowledge of knots, Holmes tied Watson's wrists firmly together.

He pulled the bow tightly and stepped back down onto the carpet. He went to the foot of the bed to admire his handiwork. He had to bridle the urge to force himself on Watson when he saw the state he was in. Watson's chest was thrown out. The muscles around the nipples were pulled taught, the nubs themselves were hard and dark, standing erect and aroused. His hips were thrown forward; his straining sex was damp already. Droplets of sweat were clinging to the small, fair clump of pubic hair around his cock.

"Look at the state you've gotten yourself into," Holmes said coolly. "Wet with the mere thought of being bent over. What the greatest men can be reduced to, Watson."

Watson emitted a guttural groan; he thrust his hips forward which in turn tightened the bonds behind his back. The expression of desperation on his face was almost enough to make Holmes just force him down and pound into him until they both came but he applied the self-control he had proven he possessed. He wanted Watson to orgasm knowing that he belonged to Holmes. That his body, especially that low, hot, tight part of him, belonged to Holmes and no one else in this world would touch him.

"Oh, please," Watson gasped, staring at Holmes with wide, helpless eyes. "Please take me."

Holmes bit his lip, his erection giving a hard throb at Watson's words. How he loved to hear Watson beg. It was a rich and rare treat, he could rarely push Watson to that point where his desire overtook his dignity but when he did manage it, he knew he had Watson eating out of the palm of his hand.

Between his legs, his erection pulsed in hard, painful beats. He steadied his breathing, forcing himself back under control- just.

"Patience, Watson." He managed to say, feeling like his throat had contracted to half its size. He knelt on the edge of the bed, combing Watson's figure hungrily. He didn't want to look away; he didn't even want to blink. He wanted to drink in Watson's perfection until he was drunk on it.

Watson exhaled harshly, looking away but unable to do more to defend himself against Holmes's fierce gaze.

He crawled up onto the bed and knelt opposite Watson. He could feel the heat radiating off Watson's body, he wanted very much to press himself against him but he managed to bridle that urge. He had other plans for Watson.

"Look at me." Holmes said, watching Watson closely.

Watson slowly met his eye, his cheeks were flushed an angry red colour and his eyelashes were clumped together.

Silently, Holmes leant down and latched his lips onto Watson's neck. Watson gasped, rolling his hips forward, trying fruitlessly to reach Holmes.

Holmes stroked Watson's skin with his tongue, drinking in Watson's helplessness as he grunted and whimpered. Holmes's hair was tantalizingly close to Watson's face; Holmes's scent was full in his nostrils and he wanted desperately to bury his face in Holmes's hair and inhale him.

Holmes moved lower. He coursed his tongue along Watson's collar bone. He caressed Watson's throat, pushing gently and listening to the shaky breath of pleasure it drew from him.

"Holmes..." Watson said uncertainly, jerking against his bonds.

Holmes did not reply, he looked up at Watson to silence him. Watson stopped his struggling as he felt Holmes's hands on his hips. Almost simultaneously, Holmes's mouth engulfed his left nipple.

"Oh Gods..." Watson said weakly, needing to hold onto Holmes but trapped tightly in his bonds.

Holmes released it slowly, it stood damp and hard, sending shivers down Holmes's back. He gently rubbed it with his fingers, knowing how much pressure to apply to give the most pleasure. He stroked Watson's chest hair, returning his mouth to the reddened nub. He gently ran his teeth across it and felt Watson's whole body jerk violently.

"Ugh..." Watson mumbled. "God, that feels-

"Silence, Watson." Holmes said, abandoning Watson's nipple and turning his attention instead to the doctor's straining cock.

"Holmes..." Watson said weakly as Holmes eyed the hardened flesh, his motive clear.

Holmes ignored him, gently touching the damp tip with his fingers. Watson's hips bucked slightly, he gave a breathless, almost inaudible plea for Holmes to stop.

Holmes teased the slick, heated flesh, never taking it fully in his hand or applying enough to pressure to create more than the slightest friction. He fondled him gently, knowing that the sensation was driving Watson insane.

"Bastard..." Watson hissed, tossing his head in frustration.

Holmes took him tighter in hand, rubbing it against his palm. Watson rolled his hips into Holmes's hand, unable to generate the friction his body needed.

Holmes slid his hand down and teased Watson's ball sac gently.

"Ah!" Watson gasped. "Holmes, for God's sake."

Holmes ignored him, sliding his fingers down further to the tempting heat of Watson's entrance. Watson stared at him desperately, moving restlessly where he was and unable to fight the sensation of Holmes's fingers so close to being inside of him.

Holmes moved his hand back to Watson's cock, taking it firmer in his hand and rubbing it purposefully. His hand was clammy and damp and the sweat mixed with the pre-cum already leaking from Watson's tip. He stroked it up and down Watson's straining length, feeling Watson rock against him.

"I need... I need..." Watson panted, thrusting his hips desperately. "More."

Holmes released him abruptly and straightened up. Watson blinked in surprise, his mouth open. Holmes rose an eyebrow, as though surveying one of his pupils who had failed a test and was about to be punished.

"Lay down." He said, feeling strangely detached from what he was saying. Everything seemed to be a mass of pleasure and apprehension and his mind was clogged with it. Thought and speech were dulled by his body's intense want.

Watson hesitated for a moment, gazing hazily at Holmes. He slowly made to lie down on his back.

"No." Holmes said. "On your stomach."

Watson froze where he was, looking almost fearful at the prospect of leaving himself blindly at the mercy of Holmes.

"Lay on your stomach." Holmes said quietly.

Watson did as he was told; he shuffled awkwardly around and slowly lowered himself down with his hands still tightly secured behind his back. He lost his balance and ended up falling flat on his face with a small cry of surprise. He lifted his head but otherwise he was trapped as he was, flat on the bed with his legs slightly apart.

Holmes sucked in a breath, admiring Watson's position and the thought that he was completely trapped.

Watson struggled to look at him as Holmes knelt behind him on the bed. He ran a hand up Watson's thigh. "On second thoughts." He said softly. "I want you on your knees."

" _What_?" Watson said helplessly.

"I want you on your knees." Holmes repeated in a bored tone, while his body screamed for him to just take Watson where he was, to force his way into Watson's core and take him.

Watson struggled, trying fruitlessly to get on his knees with his hands tied. He slid his legs back and rose himself about halfway before he realised he couldn't raise his upper half and collapsed flat. Every time he attempted it, Holmes was given a fine view of Watson's puckered pink opening and it sent the most intense pulses of desire down his crotch.

Finally, he took pity on Watson and slid his hands around his waist, yanking him upright. He felt his cock press against Watson's opening and for a moment they were both paralysed at the sensation.

Holmes determinedly shook himself out of it and stepped back, admiring Watson's new position on his knees. Watson turned and looked at him, he seemed to have lost what little dignity he had been attempting to preserve. Holmes could have almost laughed to think what Watson's patients would think of their neat, preened, prudish doctor if they could see him now.

"Holmes," He said in a shaking voice. "I beg of you. Take me. Fuck me."

Holmes couldn't stop his back arching at those words. He exhaled heavily, disguising the whimper that almost betrayed him.

He didn't speak; he went to the dresser where Watson had placed all of his combs, oils, hand cream, shaving cream and such. He rummaged through them, but couldn't find what he was looking for. He turned back to Watson. "Where is the oil?"

"For God's sake, Holmes. Dash the oil!" Watson said heatedly. "Take me like this-

"No." Holmes replied. "Where is the oil?"

"Bathroom cupboard." Watson croaked.

Holmes found the bottle behind a vast array of products. Watson had obviously put it there for discretion but it seemed vastly unlikely to Holmes that a maid would be able to find it or care what it was if she did manage to unearth it.

He took it back to Watson and knelt wordlessly behind him. He poured the oil slowly on two fingers. Watson was panting like a bull below him, his back hunched slightly and his head down.

Holmes touched Watson's back, letting his sticky damp fingers tell Watson what he was about to do. Watson tensed immediately, his head rising.

"Don't go rigid," Holmes said, unintentionally tender. "I'll be gentle."

Watson's form didn't seem to relax but when Holmes finally slid one finger into Watson's entrance, he didn't do anything more than inhale slightly. Holmes gently pressed another finger in. Watson's head was tilted back slightly, his back was tense. He seemed to be caught between pain and pleasure from the sensation.

Watson's hips kept bucking slightly on their accord, so much so that Holmes had to drop the oil bottle and lay a hand firmly on his thigh to keep him still.

He moved his fingers inside of Watson, savouring the sensation of the tight heat. "Do you like it?" He breathed.

"Yes, _yes_." Watson moaned, rocking against Holmes's fingers.

Holmes retracted his fingers, knowing how close and hot Watson had become. He could see Watson's face; it was deeply flushed and damp.

He moved a hand under Watson's stomach and ran his fingertips along the underside of Watson's shaft. Watson's whole figure jerked. He whimpered pleadingly, tossing his head.

Holmes had become more skilled than even he had imagined at pleasuring Watson. Although Watson hadn't realised it, Holmes had taken every opportunity when they had made love to further his knowledge of how to pleasure his partner. If Watson had known just how closely Holmes observed him during sex he would have been furious. Holmes watched Watson's every moan with immense satisfaction because he knew that it was his touches, his body that was causing them.

He could feel Watson's body trembling. He stared at Watson's damp, stretched hole. A sudden thought came to him. He could do something now which would bring Watson perhaps the most intense pleasure he had ever experienced, it would be completely foreign to him. Holmes didn't know how Watson would react or even if he would be able to do it correctly. But he knew that it would be the ultimate possession of Watson's body.

He heard Watson whimper. "Please, Holmes."

As though the words had been invitation to proceed, Holmes made up his mind and bent down where he was, licking the exposed damp, pink entrance.

Watson jolted as though he'd been shocked, his back arched almost painfully, he threw his head back with a silent scream of pleasure as Holmes dove his tongue unthinkingly inside of him.

He felt the effect of his actions immediately, Watson gave a violent spasm. If he hadn't been so shocked and alarmed by the new sensation, no doubt he would have screamed but the only thing that came out was a strangled cry.

He orgasmed violently where he was, while Holmes's tongue was still inside of him. Holmes heard his cry, felt his body tense painfully against him and knew Watson had lost control of himself. He slid a hand underneath him and felt the gush of warm liquid.

Holmes retracted his tongue and sat up. Almost immediately, Watson collapsed where he was, breathing haggardly into the bed covers and plastered in sweat.

Holmes's mouth tasted like salt and the strange tang of the lubricating oil. As much as the raw thought of putting his tongue in such a place was truly revolting to him, the thought that it had brought Watson such pleasure and was such an intimate and powerful weapon filled him up with a strange mixture of pride and bemusement.

Watson's breathing slowed. Holmes ran a hand gently down his back, rubbing him slowly as though to comfort him.

"I'm sorry." Watson said weakly, turning his head towards Holmes.

Holmes saw how damp and flushed he had become and felt a pang of guilt. "No, I'm sorry." He said, slipping off the bed and kneeling by Watson. He pushed the damp hair back from Watson's eyes. "I shouldn't have done that without warning."

"I came so quickly." Watson said, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I should have been able to take it."

"Don't be stupid." Holmes said. "Up until a few months ago, you hadn't even been fucked by a man, let alone had his tongue inside of you."

He hastened to undo the dressing gown tie from Watson's wrists. It undid easily but as he pulled it away he saw how it had left marks against Watson's skin.

"Watson!" He exclaimed, dropping the tie and touching the welts carefully. "Why didn't you tell me to stop?"

Watson sat up and looked at his wrists. "I didn't realise." He said, turning around to face Holmes. "I was... preoccupied." He smiled, looking perfect in his current ruffled and reddened state.

Holmes gently touched his cheek. "In the future, tell me if you're in discomfort."

"Is that an order?" Watson said wryly, with a smile.

"Definitely." Holmes said, leaning forward and pushing Watson onto his back. He lay gently on top of him, careful not to apply too much weight in case Watson was still sore or out of breath.

However Watson seemed to have recovered a little now, he took Holmes's waist and compliantly opened his mouth when Holmes's kissed him. Holmes, though impressed by the effect just his tongue could have on Watson, was still painfully hard and would have done anything to take Watson that night.

He deeply hoped that Watson wasn't too exhausted to go on. He was returning Holmes's kisses enthusiastically enough but sex was another matter.

"Are you too tired?" Holmes managed to gasp in between breaths. "Do you want to sleep?"

Watson leant back, looking up at Holmes incredulously. "I might not be a lad of twenty but I am hardly an old man. My stamina is perfectly apt to continue."

"Thank God." Holmes murmured, pressing his lips against Watson again and pressing his crotch against Watson's softened member.

"God, you're so hard." Watson gasped, rolling his hips up and drawing a barely suppressed whimper from Holmes.

"Yes, and if you don't hurry up and get an erection again soon," Holmes said, with as much dignity as he could muster while he was rubbing himself against Watson's crotch. "I will take you whether you are hard or not."

He put his mouth to Watson's neck. One of Watson's hands slid up his bare back to his hair, there his fingers caressed Holmes's scalp, furling and unfurling through his hair.

Holmes gently licked a path from Watson's jaw to the bump of his Adam's apple, breathing in the small, strangled gasps the doctor made. He could feel Watson's hips moving slowly against him, creating the slightest friction between them but in his current state it felt to Holmes as though Watson was grinding himself against him mercilessly.

He exhaled sharply, breaking away from Watson's neck and leaving two flushed red spots where he had been nuzzling and biting him.

Without waiting for Watson to unravel his fingers from his hair, he tore away and crouched low over Watson's now semi-hardened member.

"Watson," He said reproachfully. "If my mere presence isn't enough to make you painfully hard then what sort of lover are you?"

"The sort that just had a tongue stuck up his arse." Watson said, watching Holmes like a hawk as he hovered over his lower half.

Holmes carefully parted Watson's legs, Watson did not protest but he looked slightly uneasy as Holmes lowered his mouth to his inner-thigh and gently ran his tongue along the damp, salty skin to the space between his legs.

Holmes teased the tip of Watson's cock with his tongue and felt Watson jerk violently beneath him. "Holmes!"

"Do you wish to have an erection or not?" Holmes asked impatiently, not looking up.

Watson watched him helplessly as Holmes licked the tip, this time taking it ever so slightly into his mouth. Watson moved his hips upwards slightly as the sensation seemed to dribble down from his privates to his stomach. He watched Holmes's head and his back slowly moving as he teased his cock, licking it and touching it with clumsy, damp fingers.

He could feel the heat gathering between his legs. The ache around his stretched entrance seemed to increase almost subconsciously as he felt himself growing hard again under Holmes's concentrated attentions. He had no time to feel smug at his body's triumph; Holmes's mouth was still toying with him.

He leant over Watson's stomach, screening Watson's view with his thick brown hair. Watson threw a hand up to grasp one of the bars of the bed as Holmes's heated mouth slowly took him in.

"Ugh... Holmes..." He heard himself grunt without being aware of speaking.

One of Holmes's hands moved slowly, agonizingly up his stomach to the space between his nipples, as though keeping him in place. Watson watched out of the corner of his eye as Holmes's fingers began to stroke and tease the curls of his chest hair. He bit down hard on his lip, refusing to give Holmes the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

Holmes slid two fingers painfully close to Watson's entrance.

"I'm hard, Holmes, I'm hard." Watson managed to moan, rocking his hips up as his body desperately attempted to bury itself deeper inside Holmes's tormenting mouth. "Stop, sto-

He broke off; losing the capacity to form words as Holmes gently and slowly took him fully in his mouth. Watson gripped the bars hard with one hand and put the other hand to his mouth, trying desperately not to make a sound. The thought that there were people sleeping just metres away from them as they did such things to each other terrified him.

He couldn't see Holmes's mouth on him but he could see Holmes's head bobbing up and down, see the muscles in his back flexing as he moved. To see Holmes on his knees, feeling his mouth move torturously over his now throbbing manhood made him weak with desire and a need to bend Holmes over and fuck him until he orgasmed as Watson had.

But he felt he would have to fight for the privilege. Holmes seemed to have set his heart on taking Watson.

But then again, Watson thought, Holmes was agonizingly aroused. He didn't suppose it would take much persuasion.

Holmes released Watson with a wet pop of suction and straightened up on the bed, leaving Watson's sex glistening with saliva.

Holmes wiped the dampness from his mouth, looking smug. Watson watched in fascination as Holmes pushed a finger into his own mouth, sucking off the moisture slowly and with purpose. Watson felt his jaw slacken. The sight was almost too erotic for him to comprehend.

Without being completely conscious of moving, he pushed himself upright and pulled Holmes into his arms, claiming his mouth violently. He forced Holmes's lips open and while the detective was still reeling from Watson's sudden attack, pressed his tongue into his mouth. He pressed a hand to Holmes's back, keeping him from escape and pinned himself against him, feeling their erections touch each other.

It was as though a storm of pleasure had rushed up from his groin at an almost blinding speed. Holmes groaned into his mouth and rubbed himself compulsively against Watson, his cock weeping desperately for release. He pressed a hand weakly into Watson's chest, as though trying to push him away but he couldn't seem to gather the willpower to do it.

Watson was so immersed in kissing Holmes that he had forgotten the pain in his legs. He felt his knees buckle and released Holmes's lips with a gasp. "Ouch." He mumbled, rubbing at his sore thigh.

Holmes looked concerned. "Are your legs hurting you?" He asked softly, touching Watson's jaw.

"No." Watson said staunchly, though he could feel himself wobbling where he was.

"Lie down." Holmes said, pushing Watson gently but firmly.

Watson didn't resist. He let himself fall down backwards onto the soft covers. He stared up at Holmes, conscious of how his cock was straining and weeping for contact.

Holmes ran a hand gently up and down Watson's stomach, stopping short of that most sensitive and desperate area between his legs.

Watson prepared himself to spread for Holmes, resigned to submit tonight but was taken aback when instead Holmes straddled his hips, hovering just inches above his straining manhood. He was breathing harshly, his eyes lowered to his own painfully present erection.

"What?" Watson said confusedly, almost overcome by the mixture of intense desire and the part of him which was holding him back from just gripping Holmes's hips and impaling him as hard as could onto his cock.

"Fuck me," Holmes panted, barely keeping himself upright. "I want it."

He did want it, his privates were so sore that it was almost unbearable. He gazed down at Watson's flushed, damp and baffled face. He did not move.

Holmes rolled his eyes and reached down, rolling his fingers over Watson's leaking tip. He dampened his fingers with it and, inhaling sharply, pushed his fingers inside of himself. It was difficult preparing himself and he was sure he was not doing it well but he thought if he dallied any longer, they would both orgasm out of pure sexual frustration.

He mixed the pre-cum with his own saliva and slathered it into his hole, stretching it as best he could from his awkward position.

Watson watched him, agog. He looked so utterly turned on by this turn of events that Holmes made a note to try self-lubrication again in the near future.

With one hand pressed against Watson's chest and the other clutching his waist, he lowered himself agonizingly onto Watson's cock and gasped in pain as the familiar sensation of being trespassed upon took him momentarily by surprise from such an angle and in such a state of heightened arousal.

Watson grunted breathlessly below him, throwing his head back as Holmes forced his member deep inside of himself. For a moment, the tightness of that stiff ring of muscle dazed Watson into complete inaction. Above him Holmes seemed to be frozen too.

Holmes inhaled and began to rock against him, pulling himself away and then impaling himself again on Watson's cock.

"Holmes..." Watson gasped, his eyes widening as he was driven into Holmes's tight entrance again. "Oh!"

Holmes didn't respond, he thrust again onto Watson's cock, a cry escaping his mouth. Watson cried out too, pressing a hand to his lips with wide eyes.

"Ugh, Watson." Holmes moaned, moving with heightening speed as he lost more of his control.

Every time he was impaled onto Watson's manhood, Watson made a strangled sound behind his hand. The pressure was intense but he didn't like taking Holmes from this angle. He wanted to see Holmes below him; he wanted to fuck him and make him come without him having to strain himself over Watson's body. He wanted to give Holmes pleasure like he had given him.

Gathering every inch of his strength, Watson put a hand to Holmes's chest and pushed him forcefully away.

Holmes fell back on the covers, looking completely taken aback and slightly hurt.

Silently, Watson grasped his waist and forced him facedown onto the bed.

"Watson!" Holmes said, alarmed.

Watson wasted no time; he positioned himself behind Holmes's crumpled form and, spreading the detective's legs slightly, pushed himself into Holmes.

Holmes's back curled, his head fell back and he seemed to completely surrender to Watson's movements.

Much better, Watson thought with as much satisfaction as he could register while he was thrusting in and out of Holmes's arse.

Holmes grasped the covers, needing to hold on to something as Watson hit his sweet spot with such precision that his whole body seemed to spasm with pleasure.

"Watson. Oh God, Watson." He moaned, feeling Watson's ball sac cuff against him as Watson pushed smoothly in and out of him. "Ohhh _Gods_ , there, yes, there-

Above him, Watson made a noise like a whine against his palm.

The pressure was incredible. The sensation of being able to watch Holmes below him writhe and bend as he fucked him intensified his pleasure to breaking point. Holmes rocked his hips against the blankets, trying desperately to increase the friction of Watson's hips.

"Ah! Watson!" He cried out, unable to stop himself.

"Shush, Holmes. Shush." Watson panted.

Holmes managed to nod, gritting his teeth in a desperate attempt to silence himself. The silence of the hotel could easily betray them. A moan, the creak of a bedspring, the thump of the bed frame against the wall could make their activities more than obvious to the people in the next room.

Holmes clung onto the blankets. It was slightly bewildering being taken like this, being unable to see Watson or know what had come across the doctor. The rough spontaneity of it was incredibly erotic.

Watson watched with high satisfaction as Holmes's ecstasy increased beneath him. Holmes moved desperately against the bed, caught between the friction caused by the bedcovers and the sensation of Watson's manhood being driven deep inside of him to a part of him that made him writhe with pleasure.

"Watson..." He moaned. "Harder... harder..."

Watson increased his speed, pushing forcefully inside of him, deeper and harder.

"Jesus, Holmes." He panted, unable to comprehend how anything could feel more divine than making love to Holmes.

Holmes rubbed himself desperately into the covers, all thought of keeping quiet completely banished. " _There!_ Please there!" He heard himself cry.

The words sent an unbelievable rush of pressure and heat through Watson's crotch. The words were like a cue for his body to collapse, to finally surrender to the need, the pleasure.

" _Fuck_." He moaned, pushing painfully hard inside of Holmes and feeling the detective writhe beneath him with a helpless whimper.

He gave into the release as it overtook him. The uncontrollable pinnacle of pleasure momentarily blinded him. He orgasmed inside of Holmes and felt the warm liquid spurt between his thighs.

"Ohhh Holmes..." He groaned huskily, thrusting once more inside of him.

Below him, Holmes's whole form stiffened, his back was arched almost painfully. He made a small desperate sound and lashed violently against Watson as he climaxed.

"Watson." He moaned. "Oh, Watson _yes_."

He collapsed against the covers, gasping for air.

Watson's limbs felt like lead. His knees, which he had been leaning so hard on they had broken out in pins and needles, felt as though they would never support his weight again. He was still buried to the hilt inside of Holmes and forced himself to straighten up, gently pulling out of Holmes's crumpled and exhausted form.

He tried to tame his breathing, conscious now of just how loud they had been.

"Shush, Holmes." He whispered, gazing down at Holmes's splayed figure.

Holmes's legs and thighs were covered in his fluid.

Holmes struggled to get to his knees, all of his limbs shaking uncontrollably. He slid down beside the bed so he could tug the covers back and crawled underneath, collapsing with a thankful grunt.

He patted the bed next to him, lying limply against the pillows.

Watson nodded, still panting. He got to his hands and knees with some difficulty and crawled up beside Holmes.

There was a small damp patch on the covers where Holmes had climaxed and another where Watson had. Watson wondered how they would clean them before a maid saw them.

He slid under the covers next to Holmes. Holmes huddled next to him, resting his damp forehead against Watson's ear. He felt Watson rest his hand on his forearm.

Watson wrinkled his nose. "We smell like sex."

Holmes reached a hand up to Watson's hair, it felt waxy and wet. "I like it. It suits you."

Watson shook his hand away. "Can't you leave my hair alone for one minute?" He asked wearily, looking down at Holmes.

"Sorry. It's a habit you will have to adjust to." Holmes rested his hand on Watson's chest instead. "But I'll make an exception tonight as you made such an impressive performance."

Watson rose his eyes to the ceiling. "How gracious."

"You smell like pond weed." Holmes remarked. "I hope you don't give me polio."

"I would say that is highly unlikely." Watson said archly.

"Well," Holmes said thoughtfully. "Polio is primarily spread via the fecal-oral route and with most river water being untreated, highly polluted and therefore a breeding place for disease, it really isn't so unlikely."

"Holmes, I do not have polio." Watson said irritably. "If anything, I will catch a cold and may I point out that it was hardly _my_ idea for you to stick that... up there." He went slightly pink.

Holmes smirked. "Well, I feel safe in the knowledge that you are cleanly to the point of obsession." He said. "So there is no other man I'd rather have my tongue inside of."

"Holmes, that's vulgar." Watson said disapprovingly.

"You didn't seem to mind twenty minutes ago." Holmes said under his breath.

There was a brief moment of silence. Both were intensely content in the afterglow. Neither of them had experienced the extent of pleasure they had that morning for a long time. Though sex was always good, it had fallen into a pattern of familiarity.

The change of scenery and the fear of possible discovery had forged a new sense of excitement in their activities. One which Holmes hoped they could recreate once they returned home, especially since he now knew of Watson's partiality to being tied up.

"Do you think they heard us?" Watson asked, listening to the silence of the hotel and wondering if the people next door were now lying wide awake in their beds, praying that they had misconstrued the sounds coming from room 101.

"I doubt it." Holmes said, sounding unconcerned.

"We did become a little loud." Watson said sheepishly, peering down at Holmes's serene figure.

" _We_?" Holmes said incredulously, opening his eyes.

"We." Watson said, arching an eyebrow as though daring Holmes to argue.

Holmes watched him, as though weighing up whether it was worth baiting Watson when they were both so comfortable. "We." He acquiesced at length, lowering his head again.

Watson didn't reply. Holmes could see him out of the corner of his eye, he was staring straight ahead. Holmes knew he was thinking about something, though he was genuinely amazed that Watson could possibly be brooding when they had just made love in such a fashion.

"What on earth is wrong?" He said, craning his neck to look at him clearly. "What are you worrying about now?"

"I'm not worrying, I'm thinking." Watson replied, not looking at him.

"Thinking about what exactly?" Holmes asked suspiciously.

Watson hesitated. "Us... This." He gestured vaguely to the bed. "Do you think this is wrong?"

Holmes stared at him, and then rested his head on Watson's arm. "This." He repeated. "Which part of 'this' are you speaking of?"

"I don't know." Watson said. "Well yes, I do. I mean... is it wrong? Is us making love like this wrong?"

Holmes didn't reply immediately, he stared across Watson's chest to the opposite wall. "You're not going to start preaching the six cardinal sins at me and burning incense are you?" He asked finally.

" _Seven_." Watson said. "There are _seven_ cardinal sins."

"I always considered pride open to debate." Holmes said dryly.

Watson rolled his eyes. "How surprising." He paused. "I'm not suggesting God is going to strike us dead."

"I should hope not." Holmes said, stifling a yawn.

"I just wonder whether-

" _What_?" Holmes asked sharply. "If the Church and Mary are right after all and we're going to burn in hell for eternity?" He tutted impatiently.

"No." Watson said evenly. "If you had waited for me to finish... I meant whether it is somewhat cruel that we are so happy while Mary is dead."

Holmes was silent. Makes a first, Watson thought.

He waited for Holmes to speak, but he remained silent. Watson wondered whether he should just tell Holmes to forget what he had said, tell him that he was just tired and didn't know what he was saying but Holmes suddenly spoke.

"If you attempt to answer that question, Watson," He said, looking up and meeting Watson's eye. "You will drive yourself mad."

Watson gazed at him, feeling a rush of relief that Holmes wasn't angry at him. He took great comfort in his unjudging words.

Holmes gently stroked his hand up Watson's arm. "You can't question every twist and turn life throws at you or how we, imperfect beings that we are, react to them. I'm very sorry to have to dispel your illusion of mediocrity, but you are an uncommonly good man and your virtues far outweigh your foibles."

Watson felt his face grow warm at such praise and struggled to find words to respond to it.

Below him, Holmes yawned and rested his head more comfortably on the pillow. "I think that if there were a God," He murmured, almost to himself. "He would be a very poor deity indeed if he struck someone like you dead when there are men like the Tories rampaging about."

Watson had to battle with a smile. "That's a terrible thing to say. You're going to hell, you know."

Holmes closed his eyes, seeming almost on the verge of sleep. "The simple and imperfect truth of the matter, Watson is that when all is said and done, the heart wants what it wants."

Watson smiled. "Sherlock Holmes giving me insight to the workings of the heart. I never thought I'd see the day."

Holmes didn't reply, his head drooped slightly on the pillow and Watson guessed that he must have already fallen asleep.

The detective's words stayed in Watson's mind, he turned them over and over many times that night before he fell asleep, but it was one of those very rare moments when the words and their meaning brought him peaceful sleep after many months of restlessness.

**oOo**

Watson awoke in a vastly different position than when he'd fallen asleep. It always surprised him how both he and Holmes seemed to have the ability to fall asleep in a very comfortable position, with their arms around each other and awake in the most odd contortions as though they'd just been wrestling.

Watson awoke with Holmes's knee in his crotch and his mouth stuck to his neck. He was certain that it was the position of Holmes's knee that had woken him from an otherwise sweet and restful slumber. He now felt uncomfortably awake.

With much care, he managed to untangle himself from Holmes's limbs without waking him and slipped out from the covers. The morning air was icy and he hurriedly wrapped himself in Holmes's dressing gown, left slung on the floor. His legs felt numb and ached dully with the exertions of the previous day (and that morning) but he could stand without too much pain, though he looked forward to acquiring a new cane.

He glanced behind him to Holmes's still figure. He seemed to be fast asleep. The covers were wrapped around his waist, leaving his upper torso vulnerable to the cold morning air. Watson unfurled the blankets and pulled them over him to his neck. Then, as an afterthought, he bent down and kissed Holmes's hair. For a moment his nostrils were filled with the smell of Holmes, it took some self-control to pull away and not breathe it in like some strange opiate.

He sat in the armchair opposite the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He glanced at the wall clock. It was only seven. He thought he'd probably go back to sleep, he just wanted to briefly reflect on the warm, elated energy inside of him. He often felt foolish, almost ill-advised when he was happy, as though he was taking a gamble on some risky stock that would plummet at any moment. But this morning he could not help but be happy.

He leant on his arm, gazing at Holmes's sleeping figure. He didn't look like he was going to wake anytime soon. Watson was content to just watch him. He liked watching Holmes sleep; it was a rare opportunity to admire him without being accused of ogling.

Holmes sometimes surprised him with occasional moments of immense wisdom, so often hidden behind a facade of naivety. It often came as a timely reminder to Watson that whatever Holmes's outward appearance: his messy, eccentric, unpredictable, needy, changeable exterior, he was a more intelligent man than Watson could ever hope to be. It humbled him somewhat to reflect on that fact.

He wondered what strange and complicated case Holmes had taken on this time. He hadn't spoken to Watson about it and Watson hadn't thought to ask him. He'd been too caught up in himself and the terror of being left alone.

He felt a pang of guilt. He'd usually be with Holmes through every step of every case but he'd been completely preoccupied with... well, himself.

He stared at Holmes's sleeping figure. Holmes was on his side; his hair was covering his face. Watson went across and gently pushed it back.

Holmes didn't stir. Watson smiled and lay down beside him, meaning only to rest his eyes for a moment but knowing he would fall asleep.

**oOo**

Holmes awoke with his face stuck to the bed with his own saliva. He peeled his cheek away, wrinkling his nose at the dampness left behind.

"Watson?" He croaked, blinking his eyelashes apart, which all seemed to have stuck together while he slept.

His eyes fell on Watson beside him, he was lying on his stomach with his face turned away but Holmes knew that he was fast asleep from the way his dressing gown had ridden up to a dangerously high position around his thighs, something Watson never would have consciously allowed. He was barely taking up more than a few inches of the mattress; one of his arms was hanging completely off the bed. The slightest movement and he would have gone toppling off.

"My darling boy." Holmes said fondly, taking advantage of Watson's vulnerability and rubbing the telltale curve of his arse.

Watson stirred beside him, making a low sound in his sleep. Holmes leant down and pressed his lips to Watson's back and then swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"On the count of three." He said to himself. "One, two... three-

On cue, he heard a loud _flump_ behind him and a strangled cry. "Bloody he-

He turned back and found Watson straightening up from the floor, rubbing his head and flattening his ruffled hair.

"Good morning." Holmes said pleasantly.

Watson piled two pillows against the head of the bed and leant against them, massaging his forehead. "What's so good about it?" He asked darkly.

Holmes smirked at Watson's forlorn expression. "It's your own fault." He said. "There was plenty of room _in_ the bed, you know." He stood up and stretched, gloriously aware of his lack of clothing.

Watson sent him a disapproving look. "It's too late in the day to have no clothes on."

"I don't see why." Holmes said, turning to Watson. Watson's face went a shade darker and he looked away. "We could stay in here all day if we liked."

Watson cleared his throat. "I'd love to. But I have historical sites to go and stare at and you have a corpse to go and stare at."

"Oh, I don't think so." Holmes said airily, flopping back onto the bed and staring up at Watson.

"What do you mean?" Watson said, standing up and wrapping himself tightly in the dressing gown. He went to the wardrobe and threw it open, staring inside for a shirt. "What was this case about anyway? Why was it so important to come dashing all the way to Bath for?"

"The case was about a young woman," Holmes said, watching him. "Done in by her husband. Perfectly obvious of course. Even the police have it pegged, but her family are somehow in deep denial about his involvement so I told them I'd look at it."

"That's horrible." Watson said, finding a shirt and dispensing of Holmes's dressing gown.

"Hm?" Holmes said, eyeing Watson's figure. "Oh, yes. Terrible."

Watson pulled his shirt on and buttoned it. "What more is there to do?" He turned back to Holmes. "If you already know who committed the crime?"

"Nothing really." Holmes said. "It's more or less wrapped up."

Watson blinked. "Really?"

"Well," Holmes said sheepishly. "The police already had him in custody when I arrived. The family just wanted me to review the findings."

Watson frowned at him. "Then why on earth did we come all this way just to-

He broke off, realisation blossoming over his face. Holmes looked at him, feeling his mouth twitch.

"Why you..." Watson sounded torn between exasperation and amazement. "That... That is..."

"Ingenious?" Holmes offered, pushing himself up onto his knees.

Watson stared at him in disbelief. "Did you really just take that case so you could drag me to Bath?"

"I hardly dragged you." Holmes said.

"But why?" Watson demanded in bemusement. "Why would you waste a journey?"

Holmes cocked his head. "I don't think it's such a waste. It wasn't for my benefit. It was for yours."

Watson walked slowly over to him, looking as though he was wondering whether to punch or kiss him. He stood in front of Holmes's vulnerable figure, staring down at him blankly. "You're a delinquent." He said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Holmes straightened up and laid his hands on Watson's shoulders, his face inches from Watson's. "I know." He said proudly. He slid his hands around Watson's neck, pressing himself against him.

Watson rested his fingertips on Holmes's chin. "I suppose that means we have the rest of this week to ourselves." He said nonchalantly.

Holmes shivered slightly against him at the prospect. "Entirely alone." He said in a low voice.

He leant up and kissed Watson deeply. He felt Watson's hands grip his shoulders.

A knock at the door abruptly interrupted their burgeoning activities.

"Damn them." Holmes swore under his breath as Watson sprung away from him, a look of panic immediately coming across his face.

"Oh God." He said. "Oh God, what if they heard us?" He hurriedly stared around. He rushed to the covers of the bed and tugged them back so the stains was covered. He turned to Holmes, still standing and staring at him. "What are you doing!" He hissed, as the person knocked again, louder. "Put something on!"

"You know just because someone knocks at your door, it doesn't mean you're compelled to let them." Holmes said in a bored tone, not bothering to lower his voice.

Watson firmly grasped his arm and almost threw him under the bedcovers. Then he hurried to the door and threw it open. It was the manager.

Perfect, Watson thought irritably.

"Good morning, Sir!" The manager sung, beaming at him like he was his favourite nephew and not just one of his hotel patrons.

"Good morning," Watson said stiffly, watching Holmes out of the corner of his eye. "Can I help you?"

"Well," The manager said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief from his sleeve. "Well, I just wanted to... apologise in person for my staff's atrocious behaviour last night. I have spoken to them and they are terribly sorry for any inconvenience they might have caused you."

Watson nodded hurriedly. "No, no. It really isn't any trouble. I understand perfectly. Well, anyway. Goodbye-

He tried to close the door but the manager help it open with his foot. "Wait!" He said hurriedly while Watson had to strive to hide his exasperation. "I don't mean to intrude on you. I won't take another moment of your time. I just wanted to offer you and your..." He glanced at Holmes, buried up to the stomach in the bedcovers. "Companion, a free meal in our restaurant if you wish, to demonstrate our deepest regret."

"That sounds wonderful," Watson snapped impatiently. "Thank you so much for your kindness. I really must go now. I'm barely dressed for receiving people."

"Yes, yes. Of course." The manager glanced down at Watson's shirt. "I will let you get back to-

He stopped short, his watery little eyes widening slightly. They darted back to where Holmes lay undressed beneath the sheets to the untouched bed at the far end of the room and back to Watson. He went slightly pink.

Watson saw it with horror. "Thank you so much. Goodbye." He shut the door in the manager's face and collapsed against the wall, groaning.

Behind him, Holmes began sniggering uncontrollably.

"It's not funny!" Watson burst out, turning to him.

Holmes tried to control himself. "I know, I know. But..." He fought a smirk.

"He could report us!" Watson said furiously.

"Oh, Watson. Such naivety," Holmes said, rolling his eyes. "That man will never report us. One, because he looked like he was about to piss himself and I don't think he has it in him to repeat what he saw..." He paused. "Or what he thought he saw. And two, he doesn't want to give his hotel a name as the haunt of sodomites."

Watson had to admit that Holmes did have a point. He bit his lip.

"Rest assured that that man will not be responsible for getting us imprisoned," He sunk back into the pillows with a laugh. "That man is the last man on earth capable of getting us imprisoned."

Watson shook his head slowly, still shell-shocked. "I hope that you are right."

Holmes patted the bed beside him. "Come back to bed, Watson. I'll soon put that nasty manager out of your mind."

"Pervert." Watson said, but he went anyway.

**oOo**

"Do you think if I wrote Lestrade, he would allow me to assist them again?" Holmes asked Watson, as they were hurtling back to London aboard the midday train.

Their week together had passed too quickly but at the same time they were glad to be going home. Especially Holmes, who had been nursing the thought of getting his hands on a real case as soon as they reached London all week.

Watson looked at him. "I'd daresay," He said, frowning. "They're probably desperate to have you back."

Holmes chewed the inside of his cheek. "It's just they haven't contacted me at all since... well, for six months."

"I doubt that is because they don't need you," Watson said wryly. "I also doubt whether that is because they no longer want your expertise." He laughed humourlessly. "I daresay it's because of me."

"You?" Holmes said, resting his elbow on the window.

"They don't want to see me." Watson said flatly. "They don't want to have to go through those horrible, awkward motions of pity and regret."

Holmes looked slightly unconvinced. Watson reached across and squeezed his knee. "It is not because of you." He said firmly.

Holmes nodded. "I should hope not," He said with a slight sniff. "They're useless without me. They couldn't catch a criminal if they left a portrait of themself at the scene and an address of where to find them."

Watson cringed. "Maybe don't use so many of those analogies in future, Holmes. Or they may well desert you."

Holmes straightened up, gazing at Watson. "It'll be like old times. Me and you working together on cases."

"Not too closely, I hope," Watson said dryly. "I do have my own career to tend to, you know and if I have to sleep with you and work with you, you might drive me mad."

Holmes laughed and leant across, kissing him quickly on the mouth. "A new life for us," He said dreamily, sitting back in his seat. "Work. Love. Happiness. What more can a man want?"

"Very little. The little blessings we receive are precious," Watson said quietly, gazing out of the window as the landscape whipped past in a mass of green and brown below the blue stretch of cloudless sky. "We should be thankful."

Holmes smiled at him. "Oh, I am, Watson. I am."

He closed his eyes, knowing Watson was close to him. Would always be close to him.

He listened to the click of the wheels as the train raced the track, the whistle of the wind outside, the footsteps of the passengers wandering past the compartment and the distant cry of 'Tickets! Tickets, please!' as the train hurtled back towards the city.


End file.
